


The Lies We've Trusted

by Dexterous_Sinistrous



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Dystopia, Alternate Universe - Human, Alternate Universe - Science Fiction, Alternate Universe - Solarpunk, Alternate Universe - War, Guard Stiles, Implied/Referenced Torture, M/M, Moral Dilemmas, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Past Kate Argent/Derek Hale, Prisoner Derek, Prisoner of War, Revolutionaries, Revolutionaries In Love, Riots, Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-11-25
Updated: 2016-06-15
Packaged: 2018-05-03 06:59:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 32,093
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5281190
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dexterous_Sinistrous/pseuds/Dexterous_Sinistrous
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Growing up in a kingdom where the rich ruled and the poor suffered had become the norm to Stiles Stilinski. It was a norm he did not wish to embrace. Everything changes when the Resistance starts to surface.</p><p>Stiles realizes that there are truths in the world he's been denied, just as there are lies he's been forced to blindly accept as truths.</p><p>Revolts, and executions. Love, and sacrifice. Truths, and lies.</p><p>It all starts with a book, and ends when Stiles asks himself what he’s willing to risk for the Resistance to succeed. His life? Perhaps his father or his friends? Or maybe even his love?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Status Quo

**Author's Note:**

> Many months ago, the lovely [afterthelastlight](http://afterthelastlight.tumblr.com/) sent me a prompt request, asking me to write a fic based off of her posts about a Solarpunk AU ([x](http://afterthelastlight.tumblr.com/post/124983829934/dystopian-solar-punk-au), [x](http://afterthelastlight.tumblr.com/post/124316594559/solarpunkideas)).
> 
> This fic is a result of that!
> 
> I haven't read any Solarpunk works, but I've poked around on the internet. There will be more description about the world in the following chapters. In the meantime, if you've ever played Final Fantasy X/X-2 or Remember Me, think about those types of futuristic type worlds that also have a dash of dystopia. The greenery that is usually associated with Solarpunk will be making an appearance in later chapters.
> 
> There are a few Anglo-Saxon words that are used by the Ytirians--don't worry, Stiles almost always figures them out in the chapter, and in addition, I will add them in the notes at the end of the chapter so you know what they are saying (along with the pronunciation).
> 
> As chapters are added, more tags will be added as well, so that surprises in future chapters are not revealed before the chapter is published.

Stiles was used to Deaton’s enigmatic ways by now. He heard all the different greetings and partings Deaton gave the individuals that frequented the library. He often times, however, didn’t understand what Deaton _meant_ —his actions constantly shrouded in mystery. That was why, when Deaton slipped an extra book into Stiles’ pile of texts, Stiles wasn’t really shocked.

Stiles had never seen a text like this one before, though, and that interested him. It was an average size, of course—matching most of the texts he had checked out for his entrance exam into the guards. Its binding, however, was a texture he had never seen or felt before. It was tough material, warn and calloused in certain areas that gave it a strange mixture of muddied colors. He couldn’t resist the urge to lift it to his nose, inhaling the different scent. He couldn’t describe it, especially compared to the old, musty smell of the other books.

Stiles placed the book on his nightstand, determined to ignore it until he finished studying with the others. He folded himself into his desk chair with determination to buckle down and study for his exam. His mind, however, decided to wander. His eyes followed suit by traveling over to the book. He ripped his eyes away from it whenever his brain urged him to leave studying for later.

Stiles released an aggravated groan when he realized that he wasn’t going to be able to ignore the book. He caved, discarding the text in his hand back onto his desk, where he knew it was going to remain until he inspected the mysterious book. He moved across his room, plopping down on his bed as he picked up the book. He placed it in his lap as he took a deep breath, opening the book as he released a sigh of relief to find that it wasn’t in another language.

The script was beautifully hand written across the aged pages. The paper was old and rough against Stiles’ fingertips. He invested himself within the pages of the book all evening, nearly missing his father calling his name for dinner. He brought the text with him as he descended the stairs, the glow of his tattoo shining brightly on his forearms.

Stiles had yet to miss a meal this year, his synthesizing tattoos almost craving for exposure to the sunlight. He ignored the fact that they were whiter than they had been in months, almost priding himself in his ability to avoid prolonged exposure, unlike most. It had become his life’s mission to guarantee that his father matched him in refusing to rely on the synthesizing tattoos for sustainable nourishment. He had yet to succeed.

“Stiles,” his father’s voice stated in warning as his son took his seat at the table. “You know no books at the table.”

Stiles rolled his eyes, however he didn’t argue as he closed the book before setting it on the edge of the table. He looked down at his tattoo, noticing that it was turning a shade whiter. “I’ll be pale-tat soon,” he commented, his eyes drifting towards his father’s tattoos. “You’ve been using yours,” he frowned upon seeing the muddied color gracing his father’s intricate tattoos along his arms.

“Sometimes there isn’t time to stop and eat during the skirmishes, Stiles,” his father explained, his eyes still down casted to inspect the dispatches in front of him.

“Dad, you said no books at the table,” Stiles stated in a teasing tone in an attempt to get his attention.

“These are letters, not books,” his father answered, but still recanted to his son’s wish by setting the papers down. “If you want to chastise me, please make it quick.”

“Someone has to chastise you,” Stiles replied, his eyes scanning the table.

“You have something on your mind,” his father simply stated, easily able to read Stiles after raising him on his own.

Stiles’ eyes wandered towards the book, all the questions he’s had gnawing at the back of his brain. But a heaviness in his heart told him not to cross the boundaries of propriety with his father by asking too many questions—his father _was_ the general of Bethahn, after all. “Dad, what do you know about Ytir?”

His father’s eyes evaluated Stiles as a small silence fell between them. He observed the way Stiles’ eyes lingered on the book before turning their attention towards him. He released a heavy sigh, a calloused hand rubbing the weariness from his features. “Do I want to know what prompted this question?” He asked as he looked back at Stiles.

Stiles looked down at his dinnerware, pushing the fork around the table with his index finger as if it was the most interesting thing he’d ever seen. “I’m just curious what we know about the kingdom we’re meant to despise,” he admitted. “How do we know they aren’t just like us?” He looked up at his father. “Maybe, somewhere in Ytir, there’s a family just like us, having this discussion about our kingdom?”

Stiles was surprised when a smile crossed his father’s features, a faint laugh softly bubbling up from his chest as he looked at Stiles with adoration.

“You sound just like your mother,” his father fondly explained.

It even true a small, fond smile from Stiles.

Stiles’ mother had died when he was barely eight years old. She grew up in Under City, dubbed by most as “The Boxes.” The financially poor families were stuffed into the Boxes in an attempt to hide them from the beautiful appeal of the Upper City. Stiles’ mother had skin cancer, one of the deadliest side effects that plagued the poor families, the overuse of their synthesizing tattoos leading to deadly exposure. They had to spend hours in the sun, scantily clad in garments not befitting humans, in hopes of receiving enough nourishment from the exposure. Most of those living in the Boxes were covered in tattoos, gaining more than the ones they were assigned at birth in hopes of lessening their exposure time.

Before Stiles’ mother met his father, she spent a majority of her days in the sun, hoping that the exposure was enough to heal her starvation. She had met the General before he was militarily distinguished—when he was a simple lieutenant patrolling the border between Upper City and the Boxes. He had saved her from a group of men with ill intentions—he once admitted to Stiles, nursing a glass of whiskey in one hand, that he knew he loved her the minute their eyes met.

Stiles always wondered what that would feel like. To love someone based just off of the casual meeting of eyes. He wouldn’t have believed it was possible if he hadn’t witness the love between his parents. He was only a child, but as he grew older, he knew what love looked like—it was the way his father looked at his mother; it was the way his mother smiled to herself whenever she looked at his father.

“And I’ll tell you what I told her, Stiles,” the General’s voice continued, pulling Stiles from his thoughts. “Every foe you face isn’t going to be black-and-white good and evil. Every villain in the real world will have a back story that makes them human, unlike those in your novels.”

Stiles sighed, turning his attention away from his father. He knew it was pointless to try and argue, knowing that his father had a duty to his men in order to validate their reasons for fighting against their enemies.

“What prompted this question?” The General asked, his eyes still lingering on Stiles.

“Curiosities, nothing more,” Stiles stated as he speared a piece of broccoli with his fork.

The General was about to inquire further when the sound of their doorbell radiated throughout the room, notifying them of a visitor. He sighed before nodding in agreement, allowing Stiles to dodge further inquiry as he rose from his seat to answer the door.

Stiles was somewhat relieved when his father informed him that he had to head to the palace, his presence urgently required by the Queen and King-Regent. He retired to his room, studying less than he should as he focused on reading the entirety of the strangely bound book and the details it possessed about Ytir. He blurrily examined the clock to discover that more time had passed than he thought, the clock hands showing the early hours of the morning. He rubbed his eyelids as he closed the book, placing it among the other texts as he guiltily avoided looking at the texts he was meant to be studying.

Curiously enough, thoughts of failing were far from his mind as Stiles slipped into bed. The last thought he had was wondering if Deaton had any more books about the Kingdom of Ytir, and if he could ask to see them without causing an uproar.

~*~

Stiles was sitting on his floor, books and papers scattered around him as he underlined segments here and there. He focused on memorizing the parts that made the least sense to him. He ignored Scott’s attempts to gain his attention.

“Stiles, you’ve been practicing for the past few hours,” Scott partially whined.

“I know that, Scott,” Stiles answered.

“You promised we could go to the agora,” Scott replied.

“Fine,” Stiles huffed, closing his books as he stood up. “I need to bring back some books anyways.”

“Thank you,” Scott happily stated, jumping up from his place on Stiles’ bed.

“I don’t know how you are a royal guard,” Stiles commented as he stuffed his books into his messenger bag.

“I follow orders well,” Scott answered.

“You follow the princess around like a puppy,” Stiles countered as they headed out of the house.

“And you walk with your nose in a book,” Scott retorted.

Scott had been a near and dear friend of Stiles since they were young. He had been there for Stiles when his mother passed away. He always listened to Stiles, usually participating in all the ill-thought out plans that often ended with them both being scolded by the General. But all of that started to change now that Scott received his own assignment.

Scott had opted for a more physically demanding position than Stiles, cutting down his studying and test taking to a simple physical exam. Once he was approved, Scott had begun working his way through the ranks of the Royal Guard. He never complained about his job, but he never stopped talking about it either. He would often rant about Princess Allison—how perfect she was, no matter what she was doing.

Stiles was uncertain if he could fully trust disclosing to Scott the information about the book Deaton lent him. It wasn’t that Stiles didn’t trust Scott—on the contrary, he trusted him with his life. But Scott was still Scott, and he just had a few more things on his mind as of late. And Scott also adhered to doing what was dubbed normal civic duty—and condemning everything pertaining to Ytir was assumed to be following one’s civic duty. _That_ was what gave Stiles pause when he thought of telling Scott about the book.

Scott patiently waited for Stiles outside of the library, keeping his eyes focused on the various vendors taking up a majority of Upper City’s Main Square. Everyone was buzzing about, making preparations for the upcoming Argent Day celebration. It wasn’t really a celebration—at least what Stiles would call a celebration. The poor suffered as the wealthy rejoiced, which was nothing to celebrate. His tattoos thrummed down to his bones, making him wish he would never have to use them again—that he would never have to be like the residents of the Boxes.

Stiles’ eyes wandered over to the scaffolding that served as the stage for public punishment, always in place as a constant reminder—a warning of what happened to those that went against the Argents. It reminded Stiles of why many often referred to the Main Square as the Gallows.

The last execution happened when Stiles was just a boy, his father forbidding the city guards from forcing him to watch like the rest. He didn’t know what the fuss was about at the time, but he later discovered that a handful of Ytir’s leaders were executed. _Execute_ was putting it kindly. Stiles remembered the way his father looked after returning home from the event—he looked paler, almost as if he had aged. The Argents had the leaders burned alive in the square—the Argent way of setting an example for the rest of the kingdom.

Stiles quickly ducked into the library, heading towards the desk in order to return his books, the one with details about Ytir as well, already having read it from cover to cover more than once. He looked down at his bag as he rifled through it in order to grab the books by the spines. He looked up as he approached the desk, almost stopping in his tracks when he noticed Deaton was speaking in hushed tones with a hooded figure.

There were only a handful of people who wore hoods in Bethahn, and all of them had their reason to. _Royals_. In Bethahn, if you were fortunate enough to carry a title, you had the luxury of covering up your synthesizing tattoos. The translucent-white color of unused tattoos made the owner more desirable—more precious of a commodity than the muddied brown color adorned by the masses.

The hooded figure was covered head to toe, black material wrapped around their body. Stiles caught sight of the corset hidden beneath part of the cape draped over their shoulder. He assumed it was a woman, her body slender and curved, the small heels of her boots adding to her height.

Deaton’s eyes caught Stiles’, prompting him to utter a few quick words to the figure before turning his attention towards Stiles.

“Mr. Stilinski,” Deaton greeted him with a smile, moving to block Stiles’ view of the figure. “How can I help you?”

The figure lingered briefly before making their way towards the back of the library’s restricted section meant only for Deaton.

“I wanted to, uh, to return my books,” Stiles explained as he held up the texts. He slid them across the desk, briefly catching the hooded figure’s pause in movements. His eyes lingered on the figure as they turned to look at him.

The woman was beautiful. A few strands of her dark chocolate brown hair slipped from beneath the protection of the hood. Stiles couldn’t tell from the distance, but her eyes looked to be a deep hazel brown. He was about to make a move to speak, maybe even call out to her, but then, suddenly, she was gone; she had slipped away into the dark seclusion of the back room.

Stiles turned his attention towards Deaton, his eyes wandering down to the lone book on the counter as the librarian took the others to check them in. “What’s this?” He softly questioned the book, his mind still thinking about the young woman he saw.

“Why, it’s a book, Mr. Stilinski,” Deaton stated with a small smirk.

“I— I know that,” Stiles sputtered. “But I have no more need for any books,” he collectively answered. “I finished studying for my exams.”

“Did you not enjoy the _other_ book?” Deaton questioned.

That caught Stiles’ interest. He carefully looked down at the book, noticing that its cover was the same material as the other one. He ran his fingers over the groves of the cover’s design. It was a gorgeous, vein shape that moved from one single thick line to multiple thin branches that fanned across the cover—he never saw anything like it. He looked up at Deaton, looking for a hint about why he was giving him these books. “I didn’t know there were more like it,” he softly explained.

Deaton smiled, nodding his head in understanding. “Yet, there is so much more like it in the world than you know, Stiles.”

Stiles looked back down at the book, committing it to memory. He shouldn’t take it—he _knew_ he shouldn’t. Yet, there was a part of him that did not want to part from the library without knowing more.

“Why don’t you take this for now and come back when you’ve had your fill,” Deaton suggested, however he seemed to be confident enough that despite what Stiles would answer, he would be seeing Stiles again.

Stiles softly nodded, picking the book up off of the counter and slipping it into his bag. His eyes drifted towards where the young woman had disappeared to before he turned to leave. He wasn’t sure what Deaton’s plan was, but he knew that something above his understanding was happening.

~*~

Stiles stared down at the paper instructing him to report to the Bethahn Research Department for his future campaign as a guard of the city. He nibbled at his bottom lip, eyes continuing to dash across the paper. He never knew Bethahn even had a research department. He didn’t even know what was worth _guarding_ in a research department.

“Doctor Lydia Martin,” Stiles mumbled the name of his boss, trying to remember where he had heard it before. He tried to not be trampled by the vast crowd, pushing by him as they headed to work, too consumed in their daily routine to even pay Stiles any attention. He was an anomaly in their routine—an error in their perfect equation of life. He moved with the flow, easily weaving through the people as he headed across the Main Square.

Stiles stared up in awe at the Research Department. It was a ginormous building, not as big as the palace, but close in size. It was a gilded building, gorgeously decorated in a generous design that mimicked the regency era of Bethahn. The inside was modest, compared to what Stiles was expecting from just seeing the outside of the building.

Stiles walked into the lobby, trying to keep his jaw from dropping in astonishment. He was staring up at the ceiling, noting the beautiful detail of the ceiling’s painted mural. He snapped to attention when he heard someone clear their throat. He smiled in response, nervously laughing as he guiltily rubbed the back of his head.

“Hi, sorry,” Stiles started, walking over to the receptionist’s desk.

“Can I help you?” The receptionist curtly demanded.

“Um, I hope so,” Stiles started as he fished his letter out of his back pocket. “I’m Sti—Meonenim Stilinski. I just took my placement exam—”

“Where were you assigned?” The receptionist asked in a bored tone.

Stiles stared at the receptionist before looking up at the giant gilded letters behind her that spelt out ‘Bethahn Research Department.’ “Um … the Research Department,” he blankly stated.

“But under who?” The receptionist snapped.

“Doctor Martin,” Stiles quickly stated, wanting his conversation with her to end as soon as possible.

“Head down that hallway,” the receptionist started, pointing towards the hall behind her. “Take the second set of elevators to B5. It’s going to request an identification card. Just used the call button to explain who you are.”

Stiles faintly nodded. “Thanks,” he dryly stated, moving to head down the hallway and towards the elevators. He waited in silence, uncertain of how this was all going to turn out. He quickly took the few steps necessary to dash inside the empty elevator. He clicked the ‘B5’ button and then the red ‘Call’ button as the receptionist instructed him.

“State your name,” a stern voice demanded over the elevator’s speakers.

“Meonenim Stilinski,” Stiles answered. “I go by Stiles, though.”

“What the hell is a Stiles?” The voice questioned.

“It’s a nickname,” Stiles irritably answered. “If you want to remember the monstrosity that is my name, that’s your choice. I’m helping you out.”

“Whatever,” the voice curtly answered. “You’ve been assigned to Doctor Martin. She’ll get you your identification card.”

“Thanks,” Stiles answered as the elevator started to move, heading down to level B5.

Stiles peeked his head out of the elevator, looking both ways to examine what was happening on this level. There was no one in sight. He stepped out of the elevator, furrowing his eyebrows slightly as he considered which way to go. He took a chance, heading to the right of the elevator—he figured he could always head back the other way if he hit a dead end.

Most of the walls Stiles passed were lined with different equipment and labeled containers. Every now and again, he leaned in close to examine the text of the labels. He sighed, turning to look down a connecting hallway. He frowned, unable to see if there were any personnel he could speak to. He turned to head back, pausing when he heard the sound of voices. He looked towards the door that muffled the conversation the voices were having. He opened the door, leaning his head in to see if he could find someone to ask about Doctor Martin’s whereabouts.

Stiles was about to call out when he heard the conversation clearer now that the door was no longer in the way. His grip tightened on the doorknob as he listened to the conversation.

“We’re never going home,” a young male voice stated.

“Stop saying that,” a deeper voice answered. “You can’t say anything positive, can you?”

“Do you blame him?” An annoyed female voice questioned.

“We’re going to die here,” the young male voice commented. “And if we don’t die, they’ll just keep experimenting on us.”

“She said she wouldn’t let them,” the deeper voice explained.

“What makes her different?” The female voice demanded. “Empty promises from a _lāđgenīđla_.”

“Quiet,” an unfamiliar voice suddenly commanded, the others silencing immediately in response. “Someone’s listening.”

“Mr. Stilinski,” a female voice stated from behind Stiles.

Stiles stood upright, allowing the door to shut as he turned to look at the owner of the voice. “Um, hi,” he awkwardly greeted the woman.

The woman wore high heels, making her closer in height to Stiles. Her hair was strawberry blonde, beautifully pulled up into a tight ponytail. Her glasses rested on the bridge of her nose as she slowly observed Stiles, her eyes evaluating him. She had her hands resting in the pockets of her lab coat.

“You’re Meonenim Stilinski?” The woman asked.

“Yes … ma’am,” Stiles added out of respect.

The woman’s features soured. “Don’t call me ma’am,” she stated. “I’m Lydia,” she explained.

“Dr. Martin—”

“—Lydia is fine,” Lydia instructed.

“Lydia,” Stiles repeated. “I’m sorry about—” he gestured towards the door he was just leaning into. “I was looking for you.”

“It’s fine,” Lydia stated, gesturing her head behind her. She turned and started walking, leaving Stiles to make the decision to follow after her. “That’s where we house the prisoners of war for our experiments,” she simply explained.

“The prisoners of …” Stiles’ voice died off. It suddenly made sense why he didn’t understand some words they were using. Though Bethahn and Ytir shared borders, their common language was limited. They used some words differently than each other, and often times having different meanings in their use.

“All prisoners of war are used towards achieving Bethahn’s greater goals,” Lydia explained. She paused as she got to a large, secure door. She turned to look at Stiles. “Does that bother you, Mr. Stilinski?”

Stiles bit his tongue just as the words ‘Of course it does’ tried to escape.

“You can speak your mind,” Lydia stated, as if she knew what was crossing his mind at the moment.

“Using anyone for experiments … whether they are prisoners of war or not seems rather …” Stiles sighed, unable to find the right words as he rubbed the back of his neck in uncertainty.

“Disconcerting?” Lydia offered with an arch of her eyebrow.

“Something like that,” Stiles quietly answered as he looked down at the floor.

“Something, huh?” Lydia playfully echoed Stiles. She nodded to herself as she ushered him to follow after her once more. “We’ll have to do _something_ about that, Mr. Stilinski.”

Stiles ignored the questions begging to be answered in favor of keeping his head down to try and keep out of trouble—at least for the first day of his new assignment. He couldn’t stop his mind, however, from wandering about the people inside that room— _Ytirians_.

“Do you have questions, Meonenim?” Lydia asked.

“Stiles,” Stiles stated.

“If you prefer,” Lydia acceptingly answered, moving to sit by the giant lab station. She rolled backwards in her chair as she moved to inspect monitors, leaving Stiles to linger by her. “Your job will be to escort the prisoners of war with me into the clean rooms, sometimes by yourself,” she started, not bothering to look at him. “When you are not escorting, you will be guarding the rooms and halls assigned to you during your shifts. Do you understand, Stiles?”

“Yes,” Stiles rigidly stated.

“You can relax, Stiles,” Lydia offered as she finally turned in her chair to face him. “We’ve never had an issue down here. All the prisoners are calm—pacified even.”

“The only one you have to worry about is Patient Zero,” an unfamiliar voice stated. The voice belonged to a man who moved forward into the room, adorning a lab coat and glasses.

“Patient Zero?” Stiles questioned as he turned from looking at the man to look at Lydia.

Lydia pursed her lips, a sour expression covering her features. “What Danny means is, Patient Zero has had a past documented by bouts of anger.”

“Bouts of anger, she calls it,” Danny scoffed as he took the empty seat on the other side of the lab station.

“It’s one of the side effects from the experiments,” Lydia explained to Stiles, ignoring her colleague entirely. “Patients One and Two also have negative side effects, whereas Patient Three has yet to exhibit any.”

“Why do you call them patients?” Stiles asked.

“Because Prisoner Zero sounds rather inhuman, wouldn’t you agree?” Danny answered.

“Why did you start with zero?” Stiles asked Lydia, ignoring the small twinge of moral disgust he felt in his stomach.

“Because he’s the first success in a long line of failed experiments,” a female voice announced from behind Stiles.

Stiles noticed how Lydia and Danny jumped up from their spots, standing to attention. He turned around to see a middle aged woman standing by the room’s entrance, two guards standing to attention on either side of her.

The woman had long, dirty blonde hair that hung in waves around her shoulders. A crimson gown hugged her body as she moved forward, her steps causing the dress’s material to sway. The click of her heels were loud and intrusive, the opposite of how Lydia’s sounded against the floor’s tile moments ago.

“No need to stand on ceremony,” the woman stated, a smile pulling at her lips as her eyes fell on Stiles. “I came to see the fabled General Stilinski’s son.” She stopped in front of Stiles, her eyes evaluating him with the intensity of a predator eyeing prey. She moved her hand to hold Stiles’ chin between her index finger and thumb, turning his head from side to side. “You’re rather pale. I see the General has managed to keep you safe from prolonged exposure.”

Stiles swallowed the lump in his throat, proud that he was able to hold back how much his body wanted to tremble at the coldness in her words.

“You have gorgeous eyes,” the woman commented. “No doubt your mother’s,” she more stated than questioned.

Stiles remained silent as the woman finally released her hold on his chin. His skin was burning from the contact, telling him that there was something wrong with this woman.

The woman turned her attentions towards Lydia. “I’m expecting a report before the ball.”

“Of course,” Lydia answered, bowing her head in respect. She waited until the woman left before she released an angered noise. “She thinks this is her playground.”

“It technically is hers to call her playground,” Danny cautiously reminded Lydia as he retook his seat.

“She treats the POWs like her personal _toys_ ,” Lydia stated through gritted teeth.

“Opposed to putting them through excruciating experiments?” Danny questioned.

“If we don’t do it, she’ll put that crock Harris in charge,” Lydia snapped.

“What just happened?” Stiles finally questioned as he turned to look at Danny and Lydia. The entire scenario more than confused him.

“Congratulations, Stiles,” Danny answered when Lydia elected to remain silent. “You just met Queen Kate.”

~*~

Stiles was glad that the Research Department as a whole was not as security intense as it first seemed. The only floors that were heavily guarded and locked were the B levels. Every level required individuals to pass the receptionist, where as the B levels required verified identification in the form of their cards. The third security step only applied to level E. The head scientists were the only ones permitted access to level E. Stiles only caught a glimpse of the level whenever he escorted Lydia and one of the POWs.

Stiles was not permitted access into the room where the POWs were being held, merely standing watch at the door as Lydia retrieved one of them. The POW was a young man, around Stiles’ age. He had short, curly blonde hair gracing the top of his head. His eyes were a pale blue. He was taller than Stiles, which gave Stiles no reassurance when thinking about how he was supposed to subdue him if he tried to wrestle free from his bindings.

The POW never made an attempt to escape, merely following after Lydia and ignoring Stiles’ presence completely. It was a quiet trip, an awkward air hanging over them in the elevator as they waited the descending trip.

Stiles startled when the elevator came to an abrupt stop, the POW not bothering to hold back a small snort of laughter at his reaction. He tried not to let his blush of embarrassment show. He turned his attention towards Lydia, watching as she held her arm up to the scanner next to the elevator’s buttons.

Lydia held her wrist up, allowing the scanner to view the intricate tattoo decorating her inner forearm. The machine made a noise of recognition, prompting the elevator doors to open up.

Stiles was about to follow her and the POW out of the elevator when Lydia halted him.

“This is as far as you go, Stiles,” Lydia instructed him.

Stiles furrowed his eyebrows, catching the obvious smile gracing the POWs lips. Something was happening that Stiles didn’t fully understand, and it was starting to irk him. “Lydia—”

“This is how things are done, Stiles,” Lydia stated.

“It’s my job to guard, and I can’t do that if you just make me stand around,” Stiles argued.

“If you guard, shouldn’t you just be standing around watching things?” The POW suddenly stated, a faint taunt evident in his voice.

Stiles recognized his voice. It was the same voice from Stiles’ first day. This POW was the one who said he and the others were never going to make it home. He had sounded so helpless that day compared to how calm and collect he seemed today.

Lydia ignored the POW in favor of evaluating Stiles. “Tomorrow,” she suddenly stated, gaining Stiles’ attention. “I’ll take you into the POW room.”

Stiles caught to look of surprise flash across the POW’s features before he quickly replaced it with a look of disinterest. He looked at Lydia, waiting for her to explain it all.

“We’ll see how you do tomorrow,” Lydia continued. “And then we’ll talk.”

Stiles gently nodded his head, unable to shake the feeling of uncertainty. He wasn’t sure that if after it all he really wanted to see the POWs. How exactly could he interact with people he was meant to keep prisoners?

~*~

Stiles was exhausted when he finally arrived home. He sighed when he caught sight of the note his father left for him, informing him that he wouldn’t be home until well after dinner. He frowned, knowing that he was going to have a talk with his dad when he got home about all the exposure he was subjecting his body to.

Stiles retired to his room, pulling the other book from Deaton out from under his bed. He cracked open the book, flipping to the first page. He sat up some when he noticed that it was a text about Ytir’s language. He skimmed the paragraphs, his lips moving to try and mimic how he thought the pronunciation was.

“Common pronunciation practices,” Stiles quietly murmured to himself.

Hours had passed before Stiles realized that it was well past dinner. His stomach growled in protest, alerting him of his forgetfulness. He sighed, opting to bring the book with him as he descended his stairs, heading for the kitchen. He had the book firmly nestled in his hand, balancing it there while walking. He used his familiarity with the house’s layout to mindlessly travel into the kitchen. He placed the book open on the counter as he continued to read while prepping the minimal amount of food necessary.

“Stiles,” the General’s voice surprised him, causing him to flail slightly.

Stiles turned to look at his father, somewhat relieved when he noticed how at ease he looked while sitting at the dining room table. His stomach dropped when he saw the tumbler in his hand, the bottle of whiskey gently placed in the center of the table. He knew his father well enough to understand that his day’s plans did not go as hoped.

It was rare that the General sought out the momentary peace alcohol seemed to give him, but the times were growing more frequent—more than Stiles cared for. The General was still trying to end the war he inherited from the Argents. Ytir and Bethahn had been at odds since before Stiles was a child, the war being fanned into existence only a year after Stiles’ mother died. The war had been a great distraction for the General, but it gave him an equally heavy heart. He never prided himself in his military feats, detesting conflict and the wreckage it left in its wake.

The fact that the General had quietly sought out the whiskey bottle on this night began to make more sense to Stiles.

The Ytirians had been all but forced back into their heartland, the Baile. Victory, it would seem, was in Bethahn’s grasp. But the more the Argents pushed the General to eviscerate the Ytirians—both soldiers and innocent citizens—the more difficult the whole ordeal became. There had been rumors spreading about discord among the Bethahnians, the creation of a countermovement dubbed the Resistance.

Stiles knew what the others knew, his father never revealing key facts, an attempt to protect Stiles from the turmoil. That didn’t stop all of Stiles’ past attempts to sneak looks at his father’s papers.

“Did something happen?” Stiles cautiously asked.

The General released a heavy sigh, resting the cool glass of the tumbler against his forehead as he rolled the glass back and forth, as if the cold could rid him of his headache. “Another unit disappeared,” he simply stated. “The Argents care less about the soldiers than they do about keeping up the pretense of being in control.”

“Are things that bad?” Stiles asked.

“Bad enough for them to round up their own citizens,” the General answered.

“They’re taking citizens into custody?” Stiles asked in disbelief.

“Queen Katelyn and King-Regent Gerard are both determined to start a witch hunt,” the General tiredly explained, the small bite to his words suggested that he had gotten into an unwinnable argument with the Queen and King-Regent. “They hear whispers of the Resistance joining forces with the Ytirians, and now every person who utters any words resembling the Resistance pay the price.”

Stiles wasn’t sure if he wanted to know what price they were paying. “Do they have informants?” He asked out of curiosity.

“Some,” the General stated before taking the last mouthful of whiskey, placing his glass against the table’s surface. He spun the glass around in his fingertips, staring at it as it turned in circles. “They want to … _interrogate_ the prisoners of war.”

Stiles knew that ‘interrogate’ was putting it kindly—that the Argents had no intentions of treating the prisoners of war with any decency.

“Dad, you can’t let them,” Stiles started as he moved towards the table.

“I can’t?” The General questioned as he looked at his son.

“Queen Kate doesn’t seem the type to be kind to others,” Stiles answered.

“Doesn’t seem,” the General echoed Stiles’ words. “Have you met her?”

Stiles bit his lip, turning his head away from his father. “Briefly.”

“What happened?” The General all but demanded as he stood from his chair, concern covering his features.

“Nothing,” Stiles stated in urgency. “She said she wanted to meet me.”

“Did she threaten you?” The General asked.

“Threaten me? No,” Stiles quickly stated, not understanding his father’s concerns. “Why would she threaten me?”

The General remained silent, looking away from Stiles as he mulled over the information. “If you run into her again, you tell me,” he stated as he looked at Stiles.

Stiles hesitated before nodding, knowing that his father had his reasons. “I’ve been assigned to guard the palace during the Argent Day ball,” he explained.

“Just … just stay clear of her, Stiles,” the General stated. “Stay clear of all the Argents—for my sake.”

Stiles agreed. He spent the rest of the night trying to forget the look of fear and concern crossing his father’s features when he mentioned that he met the Queen briefly. There was _definitely_ something bigger happening, and Stiles did not like not knowing. He lay in his bed with his side light burning through the night, reading more of his book, memorizing the words he thought he was likely to hear tomorrow from the POWs.

 _Lāđgenīđla_. Enemy.

If the first day was any way to judge how the rest of Stiles’ career as a guard was going to go, Stiles already begun to see that it was going to be a _lovely_ career.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anglo-Saxon words used as Ytirian words:  
> lāđgenīđla (lath-yen-e-th-la) – foe, enemy


	2. The Kitsune's Resistance

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys! Here is another chapter. I have a few more finals left and then Christmas vacation. Who knew grad school could be so tiring. I hope you enjoy this.
> 
> This chapter is unbeta'd at the moment, but I will go over it tomorrow when I am not exhausted. I just wanted to give you the next update!
> 
> Enjoy <3

The Resistance. Stiles wasn’t sure how he felt about the Resistance. They were a faceless faction that had risen up from nothing, taking Bethahn by surprise. Like the mythical hydra, whenever one of its agents fell, the Resistance only seemed to grow, fueled by the death of their patriots. It was a growing concern that the Argents wanted handled, which meant the General was under excess pressure.

When made to deal with the dilemmas the Resistance created, the General was more humble than the Argents wished him to be. He did not cross the line of questioning his human decency. Decency had seemed to flee Bethahn in recent years.

Stiles admired his father for being a man of principles, but also feared for his life because of it. He knew that politics were as ruthless as being a soldier on the battlefield. He knew his father took reckless actions to try and keep travesties from occurring. The Argents didn’t deserve to have the General serving them. Most people considered the reason the Argents had not suffered any riots was because of the public’s love for the General. It was one of the many reasons the Argents kept their claws deep in the General’s back to prevent him from leaving.

Stiles never knew that _he_ was the reason his father remained serving the Argents.

~*~

Stiles felt ill. To be more precise, he wished he _was_ , in fact, ill so he wouldn’t have to walk into the room containing the POWs. He only ever had to deal with the tall blonde—Patient Three, Lydia had called him—and as far as Stiles could tell, Patient Three hated him the minute he saw him. And if Patient Three hated him, who knew what Patient Zero was going to feel about him—or in worse case scenario, do to him.

“Stiles,” Lydia stated with a small smile as she turned her attention from the blonde woman in front of her. “I’m glad you made it.”

 _We’ll see_ , Stiles thought to himself as he lingered towards the door. He prided himself in not flinching when the blonde woman turned her head to look at him, narrowing her eyes on him.

“Another _lāđgenīđla_ ,” the woman stated as she eyed Stiles.

“More like a _lŷtling_ ,” Patient Two stated from his cell, smiling when he saw Stiles’ eyebrows furrow.

“Patient One, Patient Two,” Lydia firmly stated, giving them a stern look. “Stiles will be the one transporting you from here to Level E. Please show him a little bit of kindness,” she spoke as she removed the tourniquet from Patient One’s arm, allowing her to draw blood easier.

Patient One rolled her eyes as she relaxed into her chair. She turned her attention towards Stiles, catching him staring at her. She snapped her teeth at him, smiling when he leaned back a little.

“I think _lŷtling_ is appropriate,” Patient One commented.

Stiles wanted to groan. He felt like it was the first day of school all over again, and that he was at the bottom of the food chain.

The day dragged on much the same, Patient One and Two quipping back and forth at his expense, neither of them being welcoming—which Stiles never expected them to. They were being held prisoner against their will—why should they show Stiles any bit of welcome?

Stiles was ready to go home, needing to look in the book to see what _lŷtling_ meant, the meaning itching at the back of his mind. He had read it last night, but it had been late, Stiles almost falling asleep on the book. That was when he caught a glimpse of Patient Zero.

Patient Zero was kept separate from the others. Stiles figured the isolation was a punishment for injuring one of the guards last week—he had broken his arm. Patient Zero was being brought out to head down to Level E, his hands bond together with what looked like better restraints than what Stiles had seen on Patient Two.

Patient Zero was … all right, Stiles could admit it, Patient Zero was downright handsome. His hair was short, trimmed around his ears to suit a type of militarized haircut Stiles had often seen on the soldiers under his father’s command. His beard was godly, thick but trimmed enough to accent his cheekbones. He didn’t look like a prisoner of war—no signs of malnourishment on his body. Stiles was positive that there were citizens of Bethahn who looked more like prisoners of war than Patient Zero did.

Stiles cursed himself for staring, his eyes moving up Patient Zero’s body until his eyes suddenly locked with his. He almost panicked, not wanting Patient Zero to even know he existed, let alone catch him ogling him. But there was something about Patient Zero’s eyes that were haunting—a type of lore that Stiles allowed himself to get hooked on.

That was when a sudden commotion came from Patient One’s cell.

Stiles turned his attention towards Patient One, catching sight of her body suddenly convulsing on the ground, her body violently seizing.

“Stop!” One of the other guards yelled at Patient Zero when he made a move to head towards Patient One.

“Then help her!” Patient Zero snapped as he turned to glare at the guard.

“Dr. Martin is still on Level E with Patient Three,” the other guards stated in panic.

“Then run and get her,” Stiles commanded, moving quickly to throw open the door to Patient One’s cell.

“What the hell are you doing, there is protocol—”

“She’s having a seizure, you moron!” Stiles yelled as he knelt by Patient One, turning her onto her side as he tried to brace her so she wouldn’t move. “Go and get Lydia!”

“But what about—”

“Just go!” Stiles yelled. He counted the seconds in his head as Patient One’s body continued to seize. He uttered a small thanks to all the higher powers when her body finally ceased all movement. He checked her breathing, opening her mouth to see if her airway was clear. He ran a soothing hand down her back in an attempt to ease any post jitters from her body.

“What’s her name?” Stiles asked as he looked up at Patient Two.

Patient Two tore his eyes away from Patient One, looking at Stiles for the first time. There was a mixture of fear and uncertainty decorating his features, his eyes quickly looking at Patient Zero.

Stiles turned his attention towards Patient Zero. “What’s her name?” He asked again, refusing to look away from him.

Patient Zero looked from Stiles to Patient One. “Erica,” Patient Zero stated. “Her name is Erica.”

Stiles nodded in thanks, turning his head back to Patient One—Erica. “Erica,” he softly called her name, leaning closer to her. “Erica, can you hear me?”

Erica released a groan of pain.

“I’ll take that as a yes,” Stiles softly smiled. “It’s _lŷtling_ ,” he added, embracing the name they had decided to playfully give him.

Erica turned her head to look at him, her actions deliberately slow to prevent any further damage. “ _Lŷtling_ , huh?” She questioned with a small, sly smile gracing her lips.

“Yeah,” Stiles answered. He looked up when he heard heels clacking in rapid succession, the sound of Lydia rushing from the elevator and into the room.

Lydia halted when she saw Stiles inside the cell with Erica, her eyes quickly darting towards Patient Zero and the guard standing beside him. She quickly moved into the cell with Stiles and Erica, easily placing herself on Erica’s other side. She started to check her vitals as she dismissed the guards once they placed Patient Zero back in his cell.

“I said go,” Lydia sternly commanded when they halted. She quickly snatched Stiles’ wrist to halt him. “Thank you,” she softly stated before allowing him to slip from her grasp.

Stiles nodded, looking at Erica. Erica gave him a kind smile, one that he tried to return. Stiles moved to leave, his eyes briefly falling on Patient Zero.

Patient Zero was carefully watching Stiles. His gaze was intent on staring at Stiles, not wavering in the slightest as Stiles reached the door.

There was something about the way Patient Zero watched Stiles. It made his skin light up. But unlike the predatory feeling he had gotten from Queen Kate, this feeling was one of pure interest and intrigue.

After that, the POWs stopped teasing Stiles, warming up to him as he became the only guard assigned to escort them from their containment room to the elevator. Stiles even began to converse with them—allowing Erica to continue calling him her little nickname. He didn’t bother telling her that he knew she was calling him ‘ _little one_.’

Erica was the most talkative, always inquiring questions of Stiles, but never offering any information about herself or Ytir. Stiles didn’t take it to heart, understanding that there was only so much one could trust themselves to share with their captors. However, he did notice that Patient Zero actually watched them from his cells, his eyes constantly following Stiles’ movements.

Stiles was able to get theirs names, discovering that Patient Two was called Isaac, while Patient Three was called Boyd—although that was not his first name. Despite his valiant efforts, Stiles was unable to discover Boyd’s first name, much to Boyd’s amusement. Patient Zero, however, never offered his name, and none of the others bothered mentioning it.

Patient Zero did not speak with Stiles like the others did. In fact, Patient Zero never spoke while Stiles was in the room. The first time he heard Patient Zero speak to him besides the incident with Erica’s seizure was when Stiles escorted him to Level E. They were in the elevator, both remaining silent as the elevator descended.

Stiles’ heart leapt when the elevator rumbled, suddenly jolting to a stop. The lights blacked out, the red emergency light glowing above the sensor used for tattoo confirmation. Stiles moved forward, pushing the call button.

Nothing.

Stiles took a deep breath, uncertain what his next move would be. He was stuck with Patient Zero, the most violent of the POWs, in an unmoving elevator.

“I’m not going to hurt you,” Patient Zero suddenly stated.

Stiles wasn’t proud that he jumped, groaning a little as he turned to look at Patient Zero.

Patient Zero, despite the harsh glow of the emergency light, looked peaceful as he leaned back against the wall of the elevator.

“I appreciate that,” Stiles stated with a nervous laugh. “I’d like not to die—or suffer bodily harm, really.”

“You’re not like them,” Patient Zero simply answered, closing his eyes as he rested the back of his head against the wall.

“I still appreciate it,” Stiles answered.

“When you act like a degenerate animal, I break a limb,” Patient Zero tersely answered.

“He came on to you?” Stiles asked as he turned his attention towards Patient Zero, referring to the guard that was transferred after his encounter with Patient Zero.

“He said … unsavory things to Erica,” Patient Zero stated. “Threatened to do things.”

“Glad you broke his arm, then,” Stiles honestly reply.

Patient Zero replied with an affirming hum of agreement.

As small silence fell between them as they waited for the elevator to come back online. They both kept to their own side of the elevator, separated by an understanding that despite the friendly exchange happening between Stiles and the others, it did not reach out to Patient Zero.

And in light of that understanding, Stiles still couldn’t hold himself back. He found himself watching Patient Zero, slowly nibbling on his bottom lip as he thought about talking to him more. “So,” he started, clearing his throat. “Come here often?”

Patient Zero slowly opened one eye, carefully peering at Stiles.

Stiles was ready to give him an awkward laugh before saying that he was just being dumb in his attempts to engage a type of friendly banter.

“I live a few floors up, actually,” Patient Zero dryly answered.

Stiles didn’t hold back his laugh, shaking his head. “That was bad, big guy,” he commented.

“And ‘Come here often’ isn’t?” Patient Zero answered with a smug smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

“At least I tried, dude,” Stiles answered in a friendly tone.

“Derek,” Patient Zero abruptly stated.

Stiles blinked several times, looking like an intrigued owl as his eyes dashed across Patient Zero’s features.

“My name,” Patient Zero elaborated. “It’s Derek.”

“Derek, huh?” Stiles stated. “You look more like a Tyler to me.”

Derek released a small snort in response. “I’ve heard that I don’t really look like a Patient Zero either,” he commented.

“Yeah,” Stiles answered, his mouth dry. “I appreciate not having to call you that anymore. Sounded really weird, to me anyways. I actually prefer not having to call people depersonalized names like that. I mean, my dad is constantly just called General, which is rather sad that no one calls him by name.” He paused when he looked up at Derek, realizing that he was rambling.

Derek was staring at Stiles, as if he was seeing something he never saw before. His expression was open, his eyes almost welcoming.

“Sorry, I ramble,” Stiles nervously answered, rubbing the back of his neck as he looked down at his shoes. “Which, you’re always really quiet, but I figured that was for the dislike of company—mostly me. You seem to like Erica and Isaac despite their rowdiness. And Boyd is just quiet and all zenned out, which who doesn’t like that?”

“How did you become a guard?” Derek seriously questioned, making Stiles look up at him.

“Exams,” Stiles answered with a small laugh. “I come off more reserved on paper. Plus, I’m not really a fighter.”

“Clearly,” Derek deadpanned.

“Seriously though, I bruise like a peach,” Stiles nonchalantly answered. “They saw my last name and automatically thought—General Stilinski’s son, he has to have some military bravado in him,” rolling his eyes as he spoke.

“You’re lucky,” Derek stated.

Stiles was about to ask him what he meant when the lights suddenly flickered on, the elevator lurching to life once more. He released a small huff of relief, holding up his arm for the scanner to confirm. His eyes lingered on Derek as the door for the elevator opened up.

“What did you mean by I’m lucky?” Stiles asked once Derek was on the other side of the elevator’s doors.

“Your father must have worked pretty hard to make sure you were guarding instead of soldiering,” Derek finished just before the doors shut in Stiles’ face.

Stiles’ stomach dropped. He never considered that his father had a hand in having him placed here. Was that why he wasn’t home as often? Did his father exchange a favor or more work for a chance to house Stiles in a noncombatant role? He felt unsteady as he exited the elevator on his level, mindless walking back to the holding room as he waited for Lydia to contact him with his next objective, not bothering to go back to the POW containment room.

~*~

“The Resistance is using bombs now,” the General tiredly stated as he inspected the papers in front of him. “They took out the communication lines as well as the main generator.”

“Was anyone hurt?” Stiles immediately asked.

“No,” the General reassuringly answered. “They seem to be taking into account nonviolent means of protest.”

“Is that … is that what caused the sudden blackout?” Stiles weakly asked.

“It reached the Research Department?” The General questioned as he looked up at his son.

“Briefly,” Stiles elaborated.

“Didn’t inconvenience you, did it?” The General asked in concern.

“I got stuck in the elevator,” Stiles stated, staring down at his plate with disinterest.

“Sounds fun,” the General mused.

“With De— Patient Zero,” Stiles corrected him.

The General paused, looking at Stiles. “Did something happen?” He seriously asked, his features greying as Stiles’ silence continued.

“He didn’t _do_ anything,” Stiles replied, knowing his father was thinking the worst. He hated to think that someone could think of Derek as barbaric as the rest of the degenerates roaming around Bethahn.

“He didn’t do anything, but he said something,” the General pressed.

“Did you have me stationed as a guard in the Research Department?” Stiles finally asked, his tone was sharp and demanding as he looked up at his father.

The General carefully evaluated his son, watching him as he placed the papers in his hands down on the table, leaning back in his chair as he thought about his answer.

“Just answer me,” Stiles loudly demanded.

“Stiles,” his father partially groaned.

“Did you place me there?” Stiles stubbornly questioned, not backing down.

“I requested you be placed in a noncombatant role,” the General finally admitted.

Stiles fell silent, staring at his father.

“I didn’t want you near this war,” his father continued. “I’ve seen boys, younger than you … missing limbs, completely disfigured.” The General paused, turning his head away from Stiles, his eyebrows pensively furrowing as he recalled the putrid horrors of the battles. “You have every right to be angry with me for influencing your future,” he started as he turned to look back at Stiles. “But don’t you dare try and tell me I was wrong for acting like a father doing his damn best to protect his child.”

Stiles was silent for a while, soaking in his father’s words. “It just means someone else’s son replaced me,” he weakly answered, his voice quiet as it reverberated off the walls.

“I know,” the General answered. “And I still wouldn’t change what I did.” He knew what he had done the moment he put in the request, but it was something he knew he could live with in the end. If his child was safe, he could live with it. “I’m sorry, Stiles,” he sighed as the doorbell announced a visitor. “I wish this war never happened.”

Stiles waited until he knew his father was out of hearing range, rubbing a hand through his hair as he thought about the entire situation. “I wish you weren’t the General,” his words softly fell from his lips, no louder than a whisper against the hollow room.

~*~

Stiles wasn’t surprised when he overheard Lydia talking to Derek. He had left home earlier than usual, determined to avoid running into his father. He didn’t want to linger around his room, his curiosity and interest in the book hidden under his mattress was growing worse. It was easier to accept that his father was the man signing orders that resulted in the death of hundreds—maybe thousands—if he didn’t know anything about them. It was easier pretending that he didn’t know that someone else replaced him on the battlefield.

“I’m going to ask him,” Lydia stated in a confident voice.

“If you ask him, you ask him for the right reasons,” Derek answered, his arms crossed tightly over his chest as he observed Lydia’s movements.

“What other reasons would there be to ask him, Derek, besides asking him to help us with our cause?” Lydia tiredly questioned. She turned an exhausted look on him, imploring him to offer her another solution.

Stiles wasn’t surprised that Lydia knew Derek’s name—she probably knew all their names, having worked with them for more than a year.

“If you ask him, you ask him because you are certain he wants to help,” Derek sternly answered. “You don’t ask him to use as a shield.”

“He wouldn’t be a shield,” Lydia challenged.

“No, he’s just the General of Bethahn’s son—his only son,” Derek snapped.

“How did you—”

“The kid talks a mile a minute when he’s nervous,” Derek explained.

Stiles frowned, a small pang moving through his chest. He had thought he managed to bond with Derek in the elevator, not realizing that he had come off as nothing but a rambling _kid_.

“We need his help, Derek,” Lydia finally answered. “And I’m prepared to ask him to make the decision. He’s willing to notice how blind we’ve all become—he’s willing to do something.”

“Don’t use his sympathy to guilt him,” Derek warned. “Let him come of his own free will.”

Stiles didn’t want to hear more, loudly snatching the door handle as he slowly opened it. He forced a smile that mirrored his regular one, pretending that he wasn’t conflicted about how to proceed. However, he couldn’t ignore the feeling of Derek’s eyes lingering on him. It was as if Derek knew that Stiles had been standing outside the door, listening to the conversation, much like he did on Stiles’ first day.

~*~

Argent Day Celebration.

It wasn’t a celebration—it was a reminder. The day was a forceful reminder as to who held the power. It was disguised as a day for endless celebration.

Stiles once believed it. As a child, he begged his parents to go, hearing about the celebration in the Main Square. He remembered the way his mother’s expression soured at the thought. She was not eager to have her son blindly following in the celebration of a family he knew nothing about. What Stiles saw—as well as what a majority of the populace saw—was a celebration of spectacle. No one saw the Argents’ mask they used to cover up Bethahn’s skeleton.

Stiles hated Argent Day. He hated the sound, the smells, the crowd. He hated that today was the anniversary of the day his, and his father’s, life changed. The crowd overwhelmed him when _it_ happened—an eight year old at a celebratory festival would be easily overwhelmed by the spectacle before him. It was the surprised shouts from the surrounding crowd that caused him to look back. He could barely see through the swarming crowd, struggling to push his way through. He took advantage of his short heights, bending down to look through the sea of legs. That was when he caught sight of his mother, unconscious on the ground, cradled in his father’s arms.

Stiles struggled to get through the crowd, swatting concerned hands on his shoulders that tried to pull him back from witnessing what was happening. The concerned citizens left him be when he yelled that it was his mother, shoving at them until he finally made his way there.

It wasn’t until later that his father explained it all to Stiles. Stiles discovered that his mother suffered from a seizure. The seizures were caused from prolonged exposure of her synthesizing tattoos—skin cancer that had morphed into aggressively terminal brain cancer. After a few months of draining stamina and rarely lucid moments, his mother succumbed to her illness.

Stiles was haunted by the remembrance of her death every year, especially when faced with the Gallow’s grounds, the very place his mother showed her first symptoms. He ignored the need itching at the back of his mind, telling him to look—just once, so he could pity himself for being so close. He managed to make it through the parade, focusing on the strong support beams of the Research Department’s building. His thoughts even drifted towards Derek and the others—people were celebrating outside as they remained locked up.

“Isn’t she beautiful?” Scott mumbled under his breath. “Like, I know she’s beautiful, but do you finally see my point? So beautiful.”

Stiles was standing next to Scott, watching the rich dance around, gloating about themselves and each other as they continued their merry making. It took him a while to get over how much food there was decorating the table. Actual, fresh food. His stomach clenched as he thought about possibly tasting any array of it. He couldn’t even name half of the food on the table, and that alone told him just how corrupt this celebration was. Months of harvesting must have gone into planning this day, a year’s worth of hard work producing the gorgeously mouthwatering food in front of him.

“Uh, huh,” Stiles answered as his eyes focused on just how unimpressed some of the people actually looked when they surveyed the food. He couldn’t believe how uncaring they all looked—there was more food here than most Bethahnians saw in their lifetime.

“Stiles,” Scott harshly whispered, catching Stiles attention.

“What?” Stiles questioned back as he looked at Scott.

“You weren’t listening to me, were you?” Scott sighed, his expression slightly hurt.

“Sorry, buddy,” Stiles replied, turning his attention to Scott. “Where is she?” He asked as he waited for Scott to point her out.

“Over there by the redhead you walked in with,” Scott answered, not bothering to move in an attempt to not draw attention to themselves.

Stiles perked up at Scott’s mention of Lydia. He turned his attention towards where she was last.

Lydia was standing by the food table, speaking with several people. Her tattoos were almost a translucent white, positively gorgeous in the soft glow of the banquet hall’s light. She wasn’t covered up like with her lab coat, her arms and shoulders covered in a gorgeous lace with a collar that ruffled up her whole neck. Her hair was down, hanging in loose curls, the ringlets hanging over her shoulders. She looked regal—she looked like she belonged here.

That was when Stiles saw the woman she was talking to, his breath hitching in his throat when he recognized her. It was the woman from the library.

“ _That_ is Princess Allison?” Stiles demanded, trying to keep his voice low and undetectable.

“Yeah, isn’t she beautiful?” Scott replied, a small smile gracing his lips.

Stiles’ face soured, turning his attention away from Allison when he caught Lydia watching him. He tried to pretend that he wasn’t aware of her eyes on him.

“Stiles,” Lydia greeted him with a smile. She moved to take his arm in hers, steering him away from the crowds and other guards. “I would like for you to escort me.”

“Do I have a choice?” Stiles deadpanned.

“You’re free to think you have a choice,” Lydia answered. She calmly lead Stiles towards one of the side rooms, heading down the hallway in a calm manner. She bowed her head the passing guests, smiling when she was met with equally lukewarm greetings. She easily released Stiles’ arm, turning to shut the door behind them.

“Is this the part where you dispose of the body?” Stiles questioned, turning to face Lydia for the first time since she took his arm. He frowned when she crossed her arms over her chest.

“You’re too valuable to dispose of,” Lydia answered. She took a few cautioned steps forward, easily calculating her own movements as she observed the room, thoroughly inspecting it.

“Why the show, Lydia?” Stiles asked, struggling to keep his calm demeanor.

Lydia remained silent as she circled the room. She finally came to stand by Stiles, her eyes landing on him. “Because walls have ears,” she answered. “Although I seem to have been correct about this room in being deaf to the Argent’s network.”

“Why can’t people be listening?” Stiles asked.

“Because I’m going to ask you something that could change your life,” Lydia answered, her feature unwilling to give Stiles any cue to relax. “What do you know about the Resistance?”

Stiles’ eyes widened, his gaze dashing around the room. “Whatever you think you are going to get out of me, forget it.”

Lydia arched a perfectly manicured eyebrow at him, a small look of amusement lingering across her features. “Is that a promise?”

“What?” Stiles asked in confusion.

“You misunderstood me, Stiles,” Lydia answered. “I’m not trying to get you to reveal secrets about the Resistance,” she paused, watching Stiles carefully as she considered her next words carefully. “I’m asking you to join us.”

Stiles’ eyes widened once more as he took a step away from Lydia. “Are you insane?” He demanded, eyes dashing over the room. “You’re speaking about the Resistance in the Royal Residence—do you have a death wish?”

“That’s the beautiful thing, Stiles,” Lydia rebutted. “They are so self obsessed that they don’t believe someone would plot against them from within their own domain.”

“All of Bethahn is their domain,” Stiles retorted.

“And yet the Resistance breathes,” Lydia countered.

Stiles hesitated before shaking his head. “Lydia, I have my father to think of, I’m sorry but I can’t.” He moved to breeze past her, headed straight for the door.

“The Argents will execute him when they are through,” Lydia stated, her voice calm but stern.

Stiles stopped in his tracks, turning to look at her.

“What do you think happened to the General from the beginning of Kate’s rule? The General from Gerard’s?” Lydia thought provokingly asked. “Charges placed, no trial before execution was followed through.”

Stiles knew that the Argents were capable of that, but the soldiers _loved_ his father. The citizens of Bethahn _loved_ his father. The Argents would create a riot.

“Once the Resistance gains momentum, do you think the Argents will care to keep a General like your father, a man who values morals and decency above cruelty and control?” Lydia pried once more as she took a step closer to Stiles. “You’d have a better chance with the Resistance than pretending it doesn’t exist.”

“Is this the same thing you pulled on the POWs?” Stiles bitterly asked, a small part of him was pleased in the way a look of surprise fell across Lydia’s face. “Did you promise them freedom?”

Lydia released a soft sigh. “Will you at least meet with the Kitsune?” She asked, picking a stray strand of loose lace from her dress, as if she wasn’t waiting for Stiles to make a decision about committing treason against the royal family.

“Who?” Stiles acted foolish. He knew who the Kitsune was—all of Bethahn knew who the Kitsune was. The Argents had plastered giant posters across the kingdom in attempts to tempt Resistance members to betray the Kitsune. A high price was attached to an elegant drawing of a demonically feral fox attacking a young, defenseless woman meant to represent Bethahn.

Lydia gave Stiles an unimpressed look before she moved to walk by him. She gently knocked a rhythm against the door, waiting for a few seconds before the doors opened. A young woman slipped through the doors, moving to stand by Lydia.

The woman was beautiful. She looked different than many Bethahnian looked, a more exotic look to her features. Unlike the other rich citizens in attendance, this woman was wearing less clothing—her clothes were made of gorgeous material, exquisitely crafted and draped around her body. Delicate lace decorated the tropical colored silk loosely wrapped around her body.

Stiles flushed lightly when he saw the hints of black ink marking her back, the action of her turning to face him forcing the material to billow from her skin. The black ink meant one thing—this woman was considered to be a second hand citizen; she had been assimilated into Bethahn’s culture before the war with Ytir forced Bethahn to close its borders completely.

“Stiles,” the woman sweetly stated his name with a kind smile crossing her lips.

Stiles’ gaze flickered between Lydia and the woman before he faintly nodded in reply.

“I’ve been waiting a while to meet you,” the woman explained.

“You have me at a disadvantage,” Stiles answered.

The woman’s eyes widened and for a moment, Stiles saw just how young she was. Her expression was open, one of complete alarm and surprise. “I’m sorry, I didn’t think about that,” she looked at Lydia before turning to look back at Stiles. “I just figured you would know, but then again, that would be presumptuous, wouldn’t it? I’m not that much of a private person, but—”

Lydia cleared her throat, making a faint noise of disapproval. The woman looked at Lydia before uttering a soft apology.

“I’m Kira, by the way,” the woman finally said to Stiles.

“Nice to meet you, Kira,” Stiles stated. He crossed his arms over his chest. “If you’re the Kitsune _and_ you’re here, then that means you’re part of the upper class.”

Kira smiled, laughing slightly as she lightly placed her hand over her mouth.

“Just because she is present doesn’t mean she is part of the masses,” Lydia explained, a small sly smile pulling on her lips.

Stiles arched his eyebrow in confusion, slightly pursing his lips as he watched them both smile at him.

“I am an _entertainer_ ,” Kira stated.

It took Stiles a few moments before he finally understood what Kira meant.

 _A courtesan_.

Courtesans were no ordinary type of companions. They were men and women trained in the art of conversation, politics, economics—anything their _employer_ saw fit to teach them in order to be a countered balance to their clients. They were leaders, problem solvers, philosophers, artists, mathematicians, and in Kira’s case, a revolutionary. _The revolutionary_.

“Will you take a walk with me, Stiles?” Kira asked, pulling Stiles’ thoughts back to the moment.

~*~

Stiles followed after Kira, slipping out one of the side entrances that wasn’t guarded. He instantly knew where they were headed, watching the sureness in Kira’s steps—the way she headed straight for the alleyway that lead to the stairs that descended into Under City. _The Boxes_.

“I’ve never been down here,” Stiles shamefully admitted.

“Many people live their whole lives without coming down here,” Kira answered as she descended the steps further into Under City.

Stiles knew why they called it the Boxes. The people wore plain, colorless clothes that did barely anything to cover them. Their surroundings were methodically placed, as if a giant grid had been implemented to create enough room for all of them. There were some people just sitting in the street, staring down at their tattoos, as they no doubt waited for the sun to rise for optimal exposure.

Stiles allowed his eyes to scan their surroundings, taking in just how welcomed Kira was amongst everyone. The crowd welcomed her with open arms, even children running up to speak with her. She flawlessly blended into the crowd, becoming one of them. Smiles and happy conversation followed her as she conversed with whoever came up to her.

“You just need to give the people hope and it makes all the difference,” Lydia softly stated from behind Stiles, knowing he was being overwhelmed just as she was her first time among the residents of the Boxes.

“Hope doesn’t stop people like the Argents,” Stiles’ voice croaked in response.

“Hope does open people’s eyes towards the horrors the Argents have inflicted,” Lydia countered.

“How can no one see this?” Stiles asked in shock that he hadn’t heard anything about the poor conditions the Boxes were in. “How could any kingdom allow its citizen to … how?” He questioned in disbelief.

“They cover it up,” Lydia explained as she followed him. “Like spraying perfume on a corpse. They do it to convince themselves and others that it’s still alive.”

Stiles remained silent as he moved to follow after Kira. He came to stand next to her, looking over the railing she was leaning against. He caught sight of different stations set up—medical inspections followed by food being handed out. He recognized a few of the people—some of them he had passed on the street, a few he knew were soldiers. They were all a part of the Resistance, and they were helping to aid the Boxes as best they could. _This_ is what the Argents feared—compassion towards the abused and neglected masses they had left to rot beneath the kingdom’s surface.

“You have an army,” Stiles commented in awe.

“No,” Kira shook her head. “You know why kingdoms rise and fall?” She looked over at Stiles, waiting for him to reply. When he shook his head, she looked back out at the people. “Because kingdoms lose their people along the way. You can build a kingdom, you can even raze a kingdom to the ground and start again.” She smiled as she accepted a flower from one of the children racing by her. She twirled the flower’s stem between her hands as she observed the petals. “Once a kingdom falls, that kingdom is gone for good. But its _people_? They take root elsewhere and arise anew.” She leaned forward, parting her lips to gently blow the seeds from the flower’s stem, sending them off into the air. “I have _my people_ , Stiles. And we fight for no kingdom or its rulers—we fight for each other. Who do you fight for?”

Stiles turned his attention away from Kira, unable to come up with an answer. That wasn’t true—he didn’t _like_ the answer he had.

 _No one. I fight for no one_.

“They sacrifice so much for the Kitsune of the Resistance,” Stiles stated. “How is that not fighting for a leader?”

“I never asked them to sacrifice for me,” Kira explained, a sad aura falling over her as she watched the inhabitants of the Boxes struggling with caring for each other. “But to them, they see someone worth it.”

“They need a leader,” Stiles answered.

“Is that what the Argents call me?” Kira huffed. “The Leader of the Boxes?”

“More like ‘the sole reason Bethahn is decaying from the inside,’” Stiles dryly answered. “But to each their own.” He smiled when he heard Kira released a small laugh.

“I like you, Stiles,” Kira stated, softly patting his shoulder. “Keep that sense of humor.”

Stiles kept his eyes on the people as they helped one another, small gestures of kindness that had been absent in Bethahn’s higher circles. There was a comradery among them as they assisted each other with no expectation of anything in return. It was kind; it was decent. _This_ is what Bethahn should be, not the greedy squalor that plagued the halls of every rich family lining the Argent’s palace.

“Kira,” Stiles called to her, happy that her retreating footsteps stopped. He straightened, taking one last glance at the mother cradling her child against her chest in attempts to protect it from the sun—protect it from ending up like her.

Stiles wished he could burn his tattoos away—he didn’t want anything to do with them. He felt filthy for allowing them to turn as pale as they had; he felt selfish. He turned to look at Kira.

“We’re just slaves,” Stiles replied. “How could we possibly … how does this end without senseless killing?” All Stiles could think about was his father—the countless soldiers under his command who were nothing but kind towards Stiles since he was little. Those were the men and women he wanted to save. He wanted all of Bethahn saved.

“We are slaves,” Kira admitted. “But we are also a nation.” She turned to look at Stiles, her head held high and proud—the Kitsune. “And they _will_ hear our cries for _justice_.”

 _I’m not a hero_.

Stiles took one last glimpse at the stations, watching as the mother from earlier started to cry over her child as the Resistance member spoke in hushed words to her. He looked back at Kira.

“Okay.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anglo-Saxon words used as Ytirian words:
> 
> lāđgenīđla (lath-yen-e-th-la) – foe, enemy
> 
> lŷtling (loot-ling) – little one, (infant/child)


	3. A Different Kind of Hero

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, guys! I hope the new year finds you in great health and a happy place! I plowed through some tough work on other fics to finally finish this chapter for you! I hope you enjoy it :)
> 
> I know it ends on a big cliffhanger, but that just motivates us all the more to get there! I hope you enjoy it <3

“You really don’t need to eat?” Erica questioned as she ran her fingers over Stiles’ tattoo. She smiled as she traced the intricate design.

“We don’t _have_ to, but we should,” Stiles replied, watching her fingers.

“Why? Why would you bother with such things when you’ve cured yourself of it?” Erica asked as she looked up at Stiles.

“My tattoos are paler than most,” Stiles explained. “Lydia’s are what most of Bethahn calls ‘pale-tat.’ You usually only become that if you avoid sunlight almost altogether.”

“I probably would miss food,” Erica jested.

“It’s not that we miss it,” Stiles corrected her. “There isn’t enough food for everyone. That’s why the people in the Boxes …” He took a deep breath, memories of his mother flooding back to him. “Most people can’t afford food,” he quietly elaborated.

Erica frowned, pursing her lips slightly as she thought about it all. “So they would starve without these,” she uttered in understanding.

“They seem like a gift, until you realize what you’re sacrificing,” Stiles explained. “In order to get enough nourishment from the tattoos, you have to spend almost all day in the sun. It’s called over-exposure,” he stated, staring down at his tattoo. “When someone over-exposes, they run the risk of getting sick.”

“That’s awful,” Erica breathlessly murmured.

“That’s how you tell what caste someone is,” Stiles explained. “The darker the tattoos or the more you see … well, the worse off that person is.”

“You should come to the Baile,” Erica suddenly uttered. “We’re trying hard to replant the trees since the last one cracked open.” She made an expressive gesture with her hands, similar to a wild explosion occurring. “It’s still beautiful, though. We have enough food for all of us, too. Perhaps our dwindling numbers help—”

“Erica,” Boyd called her name in warning.

Erica turned to stick her tongue out at Boyd. “He’s on our side. He’s _our_ _lŷtling_ ,” she smiled at Stiles.

“I understand though,” Stiles stated, giving Boyd an understanding nod of his head.

~*~

Erica had another seizure. This one didn’t last as long as before.

As Stiles was getting ready to leave for the day, having said his goodbyes and promises to check in tomorrow even though it was his day off, Derek softly asked, “Why do you care? You’re not one of us.”

Stiles paused at the door as he turned to look at Derek. His eyes were sharp but clear, completely open to any form of questioning. “Because who else is going to care enough about you to actually do something?”

Erica yelled at Derek that night for being an ass to Stiles.

Derek knew Boyd agreed with her, even in his silence. He could even sense Isaac’s fondness for Stiles, even through his snide remarks. But Derek couldn’t understand his own feelings towards Stiles. There was a small longing that the bars of his cell helped to contain whenever his mind started to linger on ill-suited thoughts for a POW to have.

~*~

Stiles mostly kept quiet as he listened to Lydia explain the findings to Queen Kate. He noticed how her eyes would wander, looking at him with a smile that verged on predatory. It wasn’t as bad as when she looked at Derek—like he was an animal she could find amusement in tormenting. She would run her fingers along the bars of Derek’s cell, not caring if the guards all tensed, knowing that she was poking a sleeping bear when it came to Derek’s patience.

Derek, for his part, would glare at Kate, as if he was determined to kill her with just a look alone. The fire in his eyes was nothing compared to the malice in Kate’s smile.

Stiles remained silent after Kate left, an unpleasant atmosphere lingering among them as they allowed their private thoughts to haunt them. It wasn’t until after Lydia was down on Level E with Boyd that Stiles made a move to speak. He partially blamed Erica for muttering curses after Kate.

“ _Yfel_ ,” Erica bit out as she glared at the space Kate had been occupying.

Stiles wouldn’t argue with Erica about that—Kate embodied _vile wickedness_.

“Why does Kate look at you like that?” Stiles finally asked Derek. He knew it was a poor decision of his to even think about asking Derek about it. But there was a way Kate looked at Derek that said there was more to be learned.

Derek looked up from his spot in the cell, his eyes cold and unforgiving as he glowered at Stiles. Erica tried to ask Danny a question in an attempt to ease the tension.

“Clearly it’s above my pay grade,” Stiles mumbled, confident that he said it low enough for no one to hear. He noticed the small twitch in Derek’s lip, as if he was about to snarl in response to Stiles’ comment.

“Stiles, could you take Derek down to see Lydia?” Danny asked, having not observed the entire tense interaction.

Stiles agreed, aware of Derek’s disgruntled unwillingness to follow him. Regardless of feelings, both men made their way to the elevator. He had started to enjoy his walks with Derek. There wasn’t a need to over speak, or to keep absolutely silent. Derek talked when he wanted, and allowed Stiles to talk as much as he liked.

Today was different.

Derek waited until they were in the secluded elevator before uttering his question.

“Who was it?”

Stiles arched his eyebrow as he looked at Derek. “Who was what?”

“Who died that made you think you had to make up for it?” Derek elaborated as he looked at Stiles.

Stiles’ confusion turned into anger as he glared at Derek. “Fuck you,” he breathed before looking back at the doors. “Just because I am helping Kira doesn’t mean you get to know my life story, _or_ get to question why I’m being a decent human being.”

“Doesn’t it?” Derek calmly asked as he followed Stiles’ suit and looked forward.

“I know nothing about you, so why should you know anything about me?” Stiles retorted.

“Because I’m the one kept here against my will. Whether you like it or not, you’re still my captor,” Derek explained.

“You think every Bethahnian is as free willed as the Argents—we’re just prisoners of war in our own land,” Stiles sharply replied.

“You have more freedom than you think,” Derek bit back, his voice low and judging.

“Freedom?” Stiles practically snarled at the word as he turned to look at Derek. “What _freedom_? Freedom to watch my own kingdom decay from the inside as the masses are oppressed? Freedom to watch my loved ones whither away because of the gluttonous few who hoard what little food we have?”

“That’s it, isn’t it?” Derek stated, a small knowing look befalling his features. “Your father is alive and well, which means it was most likely your mother.”

“Shut up,” Stiles growled under his breath, not wanting Derek to know anything about his mother.

“Hurts having your past dug at, doesn’t it?” Derek continued.

Stiles turned to lash out at Derek, wanting him to shut up—to stop talking about things he didn’t know. Before he could react, Derek crowded into his space, easily maneuvering Stiles up against the elevator wall. He was pinned between the cold metal of the elevator and Derek’s hand pressing down on his chest.

Stiles made a move to shove Derek back, only to have his wrist slammed back against the wall. His other hand immediately snatched Derek’s wrist, trying to pry his hand off of his chest, to no avail.

“It’s not fun, is it?” Derek lowly questioned, his eyes fixed on Stiles.

“What?” Stiles barked out, his teeth clenched as his eyes burned with angry tears.

“Being helpless,” Derek quietly answered, his hold on Stiles immediately loosening. His hands merely rested against Stiles, keeping him in place rather than pinning. “I don’t pity you, so don’t you dare think you can pity me.”

Stiles’ eyes scanned Derek’s face, looking for a sign of intent. “You think that was _pity_ back there?” He almost scoffed at the idea of pitying Derek. “It was _compassion_. Like a normal human being should react when observing monstrous acts. Whatever Kate has done to you has clearly been enough to push a prisoner to defiantly glare at his captor.”

Derek’s eyes carefully evaluated Stiles.

“Why do you think I want Kira to succeed?” Stiles replied. “Why else would I help you?”

Derek hesitated as he slowly let his hold on Stiles slip. He pulled his hands back when the elevator doors opened. He moved to exit the elevator, lingering for a moment. “You’re different,” he stated, more to himself than to Stiles, as the doors shut.

Stiles never mentioned the elevator incident to anyone. He kept silent about his desire to converse with Derek more. There was something about his conversations with Derek that provoked an intense heat in his core—a desire to discover another point of view. He was intrigued by everything Derek stood for, even more so by the way the others followed his example, often looking to Derek for approval.

It wasn’t until the explosion in the lab that Stiles realized that the heat drumming through him was from something completely different. It was his innate attraction to Derek.

When the explosion happened, no one was prepared. The pressure on some of the canisters escalated suddenly, the metal unable to contain it for any longer before it burst. Danny shouted a warning when the indicators went off, able to grab Lydia and duck behind the lab station’s counter when the canisters blew.

Stiles had moved to try and free Erica and Isaac from their cells in an attempt to have them head for cover. The next thing he knew, arms were encased around him, a body shielding him from the flying debris. He was aware of the distant yells, of lights flickering and sparks igniting around him. He noted the sound and sturdy chest pressed against his back, strong arms wrapped around his waist and chest as his entire body was shielded from harm.

After everything seemed to settle, Lydia’s voice yelling in a demand to know what happened pulled Stiles out of his momentary haze. The arms around his waist held onto him, unwilling to part. He slowly turned, welcoming the arms as he came face to face with Derek. He stared at Derek in complete wonderment, evaluating his features for a hint that he was okay.

Derek’s hands were sure, holding Stiles upright as his body swayed a little. He looked at Stiles, his eyes scanning his body.

Stiles opened his mouth to speak, about to say something when he noticed the blood seeping through Derek’s sleeve, a deep gash having cut through the material and was quickly oozing blood. “You’re hurt,” he softly commented as his hand reached up to turn Derek’s arm for better inspection.

“It’s nothing,” Derek gruffly answered, his hands stull holding onto Stiles as his eyes followed Stiles’ movements.

“It’s not nothing,” Stiles replied. “You saved my life.”

“I’m returning the favor,” Derek stated.

Stiles looked up at Derek in surprise. He carefully evaluated Derek’s features, his eyes falling to look at Derek’s lips. He shifted his hold on Derek’s arm, his thumb tracing along the outside of his bicep, avoiding touching his wound.

“What the hell happened?” Lydia’s voice snapped, looking at the monitors that survived the explosion. She turned her attention towards the others, relieved when she noticed that Boyd had managed to open the cells to check on Erica and Isaac.

“The monitors spiked for no reason,” Danny answered in disbelief.

Stiles moved to lean out of Derek’s reach, moving to retrieve the first aid kit. He noted how Derek kept his hands on his waist, almost as if he couldn’t stand the thought of letting Stiles go. He leaned back in, strangely comforted by the feeling of Derek being close—he knew it was his own attraction towards Derek that pulled him in close. He made a move to pull at the hem of Derek’s shirt before he hesitated. He looked up at Derek, making a gesture rather than speaking because he didn’t trust his voice.

Derek used one arm to yank his shirt up over his head, silently following Stiles’ gesture. He moved to lean against the counter, his eyes still trained on Stiles as he ignored Lydia’s ranting. He watched Stiles’ face as he let him start to clean the wound. His eyes flickered over to Erica when he heard her make a small noise—he slightly glared at her when he noticed a look of amusement settle over her features.

“The data is safe, Lydia,” Danny reassured her as he checked the unaffected monitors.

“Good. We can’t afford to start from scratch,” Lydia answered.

Stiles tried to focus on Lydia’s words as he willed his heartbeat to calm down, not entirely certain Derek couldn’t hear it. He tried his best not to hurt Derek’s wound any as he finished cleaning it. And if he thought he saw Derek’s skin beginning to heal right before his eyes, he ignored it—just like he ignored his desire to look Derek in the eyes in hopes of figuring out what he was thinking.

~*~

Neither Derek nor Stiles mentioned what happened during the explosion. Derek started to linger by Stiles, conversing with him more than before. Stiles gladly started talking to him about different things, slowly pulling information from Derek about his life. Something kept picking at Stiles, urging him to tell Derek about his mother’s death, until he finally just told him.

“You were right,” Stiles finally confessed one day. He was sitting next to Derek as they watched Lydia running final tests on Erica in hopes of permanently countering her seizures. Lydia was working with Derek’s blood, in hopes of finding a cure for whatever it was the previous scientists did to them in the way Derek’s blood bonded and altered it.

Derek turned his head to look at Stiles, pulling his eyes away from Erica for the first time.

“My mom,” Stiles elaborated. “I was just a kid when she got sick, but as it turns out, I have a better memory than most kids,” he released a sad laugh. “I guess I’ll appreciate having a good memory when I’m older.”

Derek kept quiet as he turned back to watching Erica, only offering a faint nod to acknowledge that he heard Stiles.

“It was … from our tattoos,” Stiles continued, looking down at his arm, his fingertips tracing the intricate lines of his tattoo. “She had to suffer over-exposure when she was younger—before she met my dad. My dad gets food rations—being a military man has its benefits—but when you live in the Boxes like my mom did, you barely catch the sight of what real food looks like.

“She got melanoma from all the sun exposure. But it wasn’t on her skin,” Stiles continued, his fingers suddenly stopping as they rested against the soft skin of his wrist. “The tattoos had changed the cancer. Somehow, the tattoos made it easier for the cancer to travel through her body faster than anticipated. It carried the cancer straight to her brain. She got really sick, really fast. Before we knew it she …”

“I’m sorry,” Derek replied, wanting to give Stiles the option of stopping.

“You didn’t give her brain cancer,” Stiles weakly countered.

“No, but if she was born in Ytir, she wouldn’t have had the tattoos to begin with,” Derek replied. “If we weren’t at war—if we weren’t separate kingdoms vying for the same land, then none of this would be happening.”

Stiles faintly nodded in understanding. “I’m sure we’d find something else to fight about.”

“Human nature,” Derek partially grunted.

A silent moment passed between them before Stiles asked, “Are there really no tattoos in Ytir?”

“We have tattoos, but they are more for decoration,” Derek replied. “They show things that are important to us—marking us with meaning.”

“To make it harder to forget?” Stiles asked, unable to see how a tattoo could be seen as anything other than a bane to his existence.

“To make it easier to remember,” Derek corrected. “Tattoos aren’t bad in Ytir. They’re actually enjoyed.”

“Do you have one?” Stiles asked as he looked up at Derek.

Derek nodded, keeping his eyes on Stiles.

“Can I see it?” Stiles asked without thinking about it.

Derek wordlessly leaned forward, pulling his shirt up over his head. He allowed the sleeves to remain snuggly encasing his arms, holding the material against his chest as he moved forward to allow Stiles enough room to look.

Stiles leaned his head to the side, his eyes following the spirals of Derek’s tattoo. He made an abortive motion to touch the black ink, curious if it felt the same as his own.

“You can touch it,” Derek offered, his voice sounded out of breath as he waited for Stiles to move.

Stiles pressed his fingertips to the marked skin, noticing how smooth it felt compared to the coarseness of his own. The synthesizing tattoos were raised, rough to the touch when they went unused. But Derek’s tattoo was different. It was a design Stiles wasn’t familiar with, placed exactly in the dip between Derek’s shoulder blades. He memorized the curves of the tattoo, intimately remembering the way Derek’s skin felt warm and welcoming against his fingertips.

“It’s beautiful,” Stiles finally uttered.

“It’s the mark of my family,” Derek replied. “It’s a triskelion.”

Vivid flashes, no greater than fuzzy images from distant memories came back to Stiles. He remembered seeing this triskelion somewhere before. He remembered seeing it in his father’s study, drawn as an official seal on correspondences. His father had forced him out of the study when he found him snooping.

“It’s stands for the past, present, and future,” Derek continued. “To remember where I came from, where I am, and where I strive to be,” he explained as Stiles’ fingers traced each spiral before coming to a complete halt.

“I hope you get to where you want to be soon,” Stiles honestly admits. “I hope I get to see it,” he confessed as he let his hand fall from Derek’s back.

“I’d like to show you,” Derek replied, pulling his shirt back on over his head.

Stiles allowed himself to smile, curious about what life in Ytir would be like. If it really was better than Bethahn—if it was as nice as Derek and the others said it was.

“Tonight should be the night,” Lydia stated as she turned to look at Derek and Stiles. She arched her eyebrow at them, having caught a glimpse of whatever it was that was happening between them. “We’ll monitor Erica’s vitals through the next few days, but I’m positive this will work.”

Stiles tore his eyes away from Derek, looking at Lydia. He nodded in acknowledgement, offering a sad smile in return. He was happy that Erica would be cured from her seizures, but part of him was terrified that he’d never see them again. But it was worth it—having known them even if it meant he’d never see them again. His life felt fuller, more enriched than he thought guarding a research department could provide.

Lydia moved to allow Derek to take her place near Erica, moving in to speak with her in calming tones. She took the few small steps towards Stiles, leaning beside him as she carefully watched the others. “We have to start thinking about leaving,” she started, not taking her eyes off of them. “Only a few of us can remain undetected. The more this _witch hunt_ continues, the more innocents will die.”

“What about them?” Stiles asked, knowing that saving the POWs of an opposing kingdom may not be in the best interest of the Resistance. But Kira had given her word, continuously working with her connections to secure a truce between Ytir and the Resistance. The rest of them could only wait until they heard back from her.

“Getting attached could end bad,” Lydia replied, finally turning to look at Stiles. “Remember _that_ the next time you look at him.”

Stiles turned his eyes away from Lydia, looking towards the door. “I don’t know what you mean.” His voice was distantly hollow, his words muffled even to his own ears.

“Keep saying that until you can convince yourself of it. This is a dangerous game we’re playing with the Argents,” Lydia offered in a hushed tone. “If we let them know we care for one minute—”

“I’m not stupid,” Stiles almost snapped as he turned to look at her, determination in his eyes. “I have my father to think of, and I won’t put him in jeopardy.”

Lydia carefully evaluated Stiles before offering a small nod in return. “The first of the protests are set to begin next week. Make sure you’re ready.”

“Next week,” Stiles echoed.

“The Gallows will be the most public place to do so,” Lydia explained. “It will have the greatest impact.”

“What about …” Stiles frowned, uncertainty clawing at his mind. “Scott will be on duty then,” he finally stated his concern.

“Tell him not to be,” Lydia answered. She snorted in response to Stiles’ shocked expression. “I can’t expect you to be on top of your game if you’re worried about Scott. If you think you can trust him … Then tell him to get out of guarding for the day.”

Stiles faintly nodded, hoping that he could somehow convince Scott to believe him without having to reveal the Resistance’s entire plan. He should have known better than that. He should have known that he’d tell Scott everything—that the linchpin would be himself.

~*~

“Stiles, you’re talking about treason,” Scott harshly answered. “I can’t believe you would do this.”

“Scott,” Stiles started in earnest. “Have you been to the Boxes? Have you seen what is happening to the families that can’t afford the comfort our parents provide for us?” He needed Scott to see that what the Resistance was doing was for the greater good, not their own self-gain.

“Maybe you can still get out,” Scott offered, concern covering his features. “You can’t be that involved yet. If you go to the Argents and tell them—”

“They’d kill all of us, Scott,” Stiles argued. “Please, don’t make this more difficult that I thought it was going to be.”

“You honestly think I’d join you in committing treason?” Scott incredulously asked. “I have my mom to think about, Stiles.”

“I never expected that of you,” Stiles shook his head. “I know that it’s dangerous, but I want my _best friend_ to be safe when all of this happens. I’m telling you that it’s taking place within the week because I want to make sure you aren’t at your post.” He sighed, rubbing a hand across his features. “The Argents don’t care if there are casualties—one either side.”

Scott paused, evaluating his friend. He released a deep sigh. “Okay,” he finally agreed. “I’ll switch out of my posting.”

Stiles didn’t stop the smile from pulling at his lips. “I’m glad.”

~*~

Scott put in the appropriate paperwork, requesting the entire day off. He felt uneasy, not completely sure if it was doing the right thing. He trusted Stiles, but how much could Stiles trust the Resistance. They were a faceless organization that caused nothing but chaos for Bethahn. Every time the Resistance caused something to happen, the Argents tightened their hold on the kingdom.

Scott was confident he would have made it throughout the day without saying anything. That was all until Queen Kate asked him to walk with her.

“You seem distracted as of late,” Kate started. “And you requested for time off.”

“Forgive me, your Majesty,” Scott answered, his stomach twisting with guilt.

“There’s nothing to forgive,” Kate replied, a reassuring smile crossing her features, yet it refused to reach her eyes. “I’m sure that whatever you have is vital information.”

Scott froze, his steps faltering as he finally looked up at Kate. He knew he couldn’t lie to her, not when she was looking at him with such a knowing smile.

“It’s … it’s personal,” Scott tried to deflect.

“Whatever it is, I’m sure we can help,” Kate offered. “In these dark times, it’s hard to find people we trust.” She placed her hand on Scott’s shoulder, offering him a smile. “You are someone we highly trust.”

Scott felt as if he would vomit from the guilt. He closed his eyes as he released a heavy sigh.

“Whatever it is, I could help you,” Kate pried.

“It has to do with … the Resistance,” Scott confessed.

Kate’s smile suddenly seemed much more genuine. “If you have information about the Resistance, you will be serving your kingdom by revealing them.”

“The people involved,” Scott paused, thinking about his words carefully. “The people involved in the Resistance are good people, they just—”

“They’ve been poisoned by Ytirians,” Kate calmly answered. “They think of similar goals, thinking that if they align themselves with the enemy then they will be free to run Bethahn as they see fit,” she spoke with impassioned words. “Tell me, do you know why this war has continued for so long?”

Scott hesitated before shaking his head. He couldn’t recall any of his teachers ever explaining the war’s beginning. He was taught what they thought was necessary information for him to become a guard, nothing more. Scott was lucky to pass his physical exam, even with his asthma, cutting out his need to focus on texts.

“Ytirians are animals,” Kate answered. “Animals who ravage our world for resources. They pool resources to overfeed their population. They lack order and control.”

Scott frowned, running his fingers along his jaw before he released a heavy sigh. “I don’t mean to speak out of line, your Majesty, but …”

“But?” Kate raised an eyebrow in question.

“But the Resistance argues that they fight for Bethahn—for the people in the Boxes.”

“Some suffer so that others can live,” Kate politically replied. “If we had the resources the Ytirians have, we too could feed the masses, riding us of these foul tattoos.”

Scott carefully evaluated Kate, remaining silent.

“Please, Scott,” Kate started, her voice abnormally gentle. “This information you have—it weighs you down. Part of you must realize that it could end with casualties.”

“But won’t you do away with those involved?” Scott asked.

Kate pursed her lips in thought. “It’s the leader that needs to be dealt with,” she finally answered. “The others could be shown leniency.”

Scott looked at her with hopeful eyes.

“We need to put an end to this senseless fighting,” Kate added.

Scott hesitated before inevitably nodding his head in agreement.

~*~

It was the day before the protesting was to begin. It was the day everything came crashing down.

Stiles was standing between Derek and Erica, looking down at the various paperwork—varying from maps and schedules to correspondences to and from Ytir. He let his gaze wander over Derek’s hands pressed against the table, his eyes following along Derek’s arm as he wondered what it would feel like to hold hands. He realized he was being hopelessly ridiculous—daydreaming about handholding when the Resistance was about to make its first majorly public move against the Argents.

It all seemed ridiculous until Stiles noticed the playful rhythm Derek’s fingertips tapped out against the edge of the table. Stiles lifted his eyes to look Derek in the face, just barely stopping himself from sputtering aloud when he caught Derek staring _at him_. He offered a sheepish smile, knowing his cheeks were flushing before turning his attention back to the table. He moved to stand closer to the table, leaning his own hands against its surface—all in hopes that the sturdy piece of furniture could stop his trembling.

Stiles only caught a few of Lydia’s words before he felt the faintest brush of skin against his hand. At first, he thought it was an accident until he felt a finger pulling at his own. He looked down to catch sight of Derek’s pinky gently linking with his. It was a small, privately unspoken promise. It was what Stiles needed to steady him.

Everything suddenly went wrong at once.

The alarms for the facility started to blare. Lydia snatched up the documents, quickly tossing them into one of the metal canisters before incinerating them. The doors burst open. There were commands being shouted. Derek moved in front of Stiles, pushing his arm back to force Stiles behind him.

Derek was about to move forward in rebuttal when Stiles tightly grasped his arm, stopping him from moving. He turned his head to the side to look at Stiles, about to demand to know why he wasn’t allowing a fight to occur, when he saw him nod towards the guards pouring into the room—they were far too heavily armed for a simple group of unarmed rebels to handle.

A squadron of heavily armed personal royal guards. The Argents would only risk a display of force if they were positive about _what_ they were retrieving, waiting to publicize their victory. The Argents knew the Resistance was meeting. The Argents knew where and when the meeting was.

Stiles suddenly realized that it was his fault. _Scott, what have you done?_

~*~

Everyone was detained for longer than they originally thought they'd be, surprised that the Argents hadn’t thoroughly planned their executions out already. Stiles realized that they were using the old technique of laying in wait with all of them—hoping that someone would crumble and tell them everything.

Stiles hadn’t seen his father—or Scott—since before he was arrested with everyone else. He hoped that the Argents left his father alone, hoping that he didn’t directly bring harm _to_ him. He found comfort in the fact that his cell was connected—by bars—to Derek’s. He could talk to him, trying to pretend that he wasn’t as affected as he truly was.

“Are you scared?” Stiles broke the small silence, turning his attention to look at Derek. He took in Derek’s calm demeanor, noting how relaxed he looked behind bars.

“Yes,” Derek answered, his voice low but soft.

“You don’t sound it,” Stiles weakly laughed, the noise sounding hollow and forced.

“I’ve had a while to get used to the bars,” Derek replied, turning his attention towards Stiles, his eyes looked lightly playful.

Stiles tried to smile, his lips turning down into a frown. “They’re going to hurt my father,” he suddenly stated.

“Your father has the loyalty of the army,” Derek stated in reassurance.

“That doesn’t save Lydia, or Kira … You,” Stiles’ voice broke when he looked into Derek’s eyes.

Derek silently evaluated Stiles, reaching his hand through the bars. He easily tangled his fingers with Stiles, his thumb rubbing reassuring circles into his knuckles. “It’s not up to you to save us, Stiles. We’ll figure it out—together.”

Stiles leaned forward, resting his forehead against the bars that separated them. He closed his eyes as he let his helplessness rush over him. “We’re going to die.”

“There are worse things than death, Stiles,” Derek stated, his voice closer than previously.

Stiles opened his eyes to see Derek sitting closer to the bars—closer to him. “Perhaps they’ll let me see them,” he started. “I could barter an agreement.”

“Kate and Gerard don’t show mercy,” Derek replied.

“But they do enjoy a deal in their favor,” Stiles answered. “You were right when you said my father has the loyalty of the army. If I get hurt, my father will react—with the full force of all at his disposal.”

“What are you thinking?” Derek asked, intrigued by Stiles’ statements.

“I might be able to talk with them—get them to banish us. Executing Lydia and Kira would only anger the Resistance, and they won’t want that. If they want the people to see the Resistance as traitors, what better way to twist the truth than to banish them with their co-conspirators, Ytirian prisoners of war.”

Derek parted his lips to speak, a small ray of hope crossing his features as Stiles’ words sank in. “You’re relying on the gratitude of my people to welcome citizens of the kingdom that’s slaughtered their family and friends, seized their land. Even if my people accept outcasts from Bethahn, you’d be risking your own life. Why … why would you do that, Stiles?”

Stiles released a sad, watery laugh as he shook his head. “I’ve never been a hero, Derek, and I know that’s not hard to believe.” He looked down at where Derek’s fingers laced together with his own over the bars. “But maybe … just maybe, I can change the future enough for someone like me to grow up in a world without war.”

Derek was examining Stiles’ features, his eyes dashing down to his lips. He softly nodded, leaning his body in close to the bars as he continued to hold onto Stiles.

Hours passed, everyone waiting for a moment to act. For a guard to demand their deaths. They were mostly silent as they kept to themselves, seeking the comfort they found in their solitude.

“What’s it like to be in love?” Stiles’ voice suddenly broke the silence between him and Derek. He turned his head against the bars to look at Derek.

Derek’s eyebrows were arched in question, not knowing where Stiles was going with this line of questioning.

“I’ve never been in love,” Stiles sadly admitted. “And if the Argents don’t like my plan, then I’m sure as hell not going to ever find out what it’s like.”

“I … I don’t know,” Derek answered. “I thought I was.”

Stiles’ heart sped up, beating hard against his chest. “What was she like?”

“He’s a bit strange,” Derek stated.

“Is that present tense?” Stiles asked, focusing on their hands. The change in pronoun didn’t escape him, giving him hope.

“Yes,” Derek easily answered. “He’s also oblivious about just how heroic he can actually be. He has a way about him that just makes you want to talk to him—if you can get a word in edgewise. And it doesn’t hurt that he’s gorgeous, either.”

“He, uh, sounds like quite a guy,” Stiles weakly stated. “Is he back home? In Ytir?”

“Stiles,” Derek gingerly stated his name, reaching a hand up to capture Stiles’ chin in between his thumb and index finger once he detangled it from Stiles’. He forced Stiles to look up at him. His thumb ran along the plump curve under Stiles’ bottom lip, his eyes following the action before he looked up at his eyes. “He’s right here.”

Stiles carefully watched Derek’s features, evaluating him for some type of uncertainty. When he couldn’t find one, he moved quickly. His actions were swift, reaching a hand to clasp at the back of Derek’s neck, pulling him in against the bars in order to seal their lips together.

Stiles opened his mouth at eager request of Derek’s tongue running along his lips. He suppressed the fond moan creeping up his throat when he felt Derek’s teeth nip at his lip. He was reluctant to pull back, not missing the way Derek pushed forward to chase after him. He ran his fingers through Derek’s hair, savoring the feel of the soft locks against his fingertips—something he wanted to do for months. “I’m sorry, but I didn’t want to die without knowing what that was like.”

“I’d rather not live without knowing that we could have this,” Derek replied, his hand still against Stiles’ cheek as his fingertips caressed his jaw.

Stiles closed his eyes against the tears burning his eyelids. He suppressed a soft sob as his fingertips caressed the base of Derek’s neck. “I’m sorry.” He forced himself out of Derek’s grip, moving towards the other side of the cell. He felt Derek’s fingertips just miss him, grazing against his back. “Guard.”

“Stiles,” Derek firmly called his name in protest.

“Stiles, what the hell are you doing?” Lydia demanded as she moved across her cell to get closer to him.

“What is it?” The guard demanded.

“I have information that the Argents will want,” Stiles explained, ignoring the others.

“You’re a traitor,” the guard replied. “Why would they be interested in anything you have to say?”

“Stiles, don’t!” Lydia yelled.

Stiles wasn’t stupid. He had figured out that Kira wasn’t the sole figurehead of the Resistance. There was evidently one more person. It was someone close to Kira, but someone who would never be implicated should the Resistance was discovered. It was someone who could make a difference both publically and from the shadows. Stile felt idiotic for not realizing it previously.

“I know who the leader of the Resistance is,” Stiles firmly stated.

~*~

“I never took you for a snitch, Stiles,” Kate announced, watching the guard secure Stiles’ chains.

“I’m a bargainer,” Stiles corrected her.

“Bargain?” Chris questioned.

Chris was more pragmatic than both Kate and Gerard combined. He would make an excellent leader, and even better advisor. Advisors to the monarch could move outside of the legal realm, giving them room to get things done without implicating the figurehead. Unlike Gerard, Chris actually cared about both kingdom and family—it was a foreign concept to the rest of the Argents.

“I have information you want. You have the power to make things I want happen,” Stiles simply explained. He kept his shoulders squared, his posture straight as he waited for the Argents to show their hand.

“I suppose,” Gerard cautiously stated, his eyes drifting over to Kate. They shared a silent understanding before turning their attention back to Stiles.

“And what _do_ you want in return?”

“You let the others go,” Stiles firmly stated. “Kira, Lydia, the POWs—all of them.” His eyes flickered over to Chris, waiting for some sort of confirmation from him that his sister and father would keep their word. Out of all the Argents, Stiles knew Chris could be trusted if Allison trusted him.

“You seem rather confident of yourself,” Gerard commented, narrowing his eyes out of suspicion.

“I have vital information,” Stiles countered. “Information about the Resistance that has been eluding your Seers for months.” He watched as Kate and Gerard looked at him in disbelief. “You cut off the head, and the whole body withers and dies.”

“I’ll admit, Stiles, you’ve piqued my interest,” Kate practically purred at the mention of the Resistance. “You probably want guarantees before you reveal this information, don’t you?”

“I want a public announcement,” Stiles stated. “I want the kingdom to know that you intend to banish traitors to the crown into Ytir—where they will remain for the rest of their lives.”

Kate allowed her eyes to slowly evaluate Stiles, searching for a tell of some sort. She allowed a smirk to befall her lips when she noticed the boy had none. “Agreed.”

Stiles nodded, briefly catching the look of fear covering Allison’s features before she composed herself.

“We don’t know if he’ll tell the truth,” Allison replied. “How do we know he won’t just tell us a lie?”

“Because we’ll keep him alive until the information checks out,” Gerard answered. “And if it doesn’t check out, well,” he wickedly smiled. “We’ll start with his father and work our way around to everyone else he loves—until he’s begging us to listen to him.”

Stiles tried not to flinch at the harsh promise in his words, knowing that he meant to keep every part of his threat.

“Now then,” Gerard continued, clapping a hand on Stiles’ shoulder. He tightened his grip, roughly squeezing Stiles’ shoulder. “We have an announcement to make, Stiles.”

~*~

“We have fed you, protected you, and for what? For you to worship a false leader—a fox who refuses to show their face,” Kate announced, her steps filled to the brink with confidence. “We have captured your precious Resistance,” she paused in order to scan the crowd, judging their reaction. “But to show our infinite mercy, we have elected to _banish_ these criminals, their every breath from this moment forward being a gift from us.”

Kate turned her back towards the crowd, gesturing for the guards to bring Stiles forward, up onto the scaffolding beside her. She took a step back, watching with demented glee as the guards harshly deposited Stiles on his knees in front of her.

There were a series of shocked murmurs emitting across the crowd. One-by-one, the citizens began to recognize Stiles—the only son of their beloved general.

“Stiles has given us what we need—promising information on the Resistance, and the elusive leader you call the Kitsune,” Kate announced. “I make this announcement with an irrevocable vow: none but the leader of the Resistance shall meet the executioner’s judgment. Banishment is their sentence.” She turned to look at Stiles, lowering her voice as she bent over to speak to him. “I’ve kept my end of the deal, Stiles. It’s your turn, now.”

Stiles looked up at Kate before turning to look out at the crowd. He took a deep breath, sitting up straight even as the chains tightly pulled at his wrists. His eyes scanned the crowd, and he couldn’t believe how blinded by arrogant pride the Argents were. It was obvious that the assembled crowd was terrified—all of them waiting to hear what name Stiles would say. Terrified that the Resistance would end. Terrified that a loved one would be implicated. Terrified that the Argents would win.

Stiles wouldn’t let _them_ win. He took a deep breath, calming his rapid heartbeat before defiantly turning his chin upward. He straightened his shoulders, puffing out his chest as best as he could in an attempt to make himself appear more capable of being a potential threat. He briefly closed his eyes, gaining a moment’s peace before finally opening his mouth to speak.

“I’m the leader of the Resistance.”

Stiles lied with enough conviction that even he believed it—for a split second—before remembering that he just publicly signed his life away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anglo-Saxon words used as Ytirian words:
> 
> lāđgenīđla (lath-yen-e-th-la) – foe, enemy
> 
> lŷtling (loot-ling) – little one, (infant/child)
> 
> yfel (oo-fell) – evil, harm, wicked, vile


	4. Fight for Your People

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know. I'm terrible with schedules. But I'm hoping my work load will lighten up some. <3 I hope you enjoy this chapter, lovelies.

“You can’t execute him,” Chris loudly announced once they reached the secluded room.

“He’s the leader, he dies,” Gerard sternly snapped.

“You execute him, and General Stilinski will react,” Chris replied. “Tell me, father, are you prepared to fight our own army? Because that is exactly what will happen if you execute Stiles.”

“He’s prepared to die for his cause,” Gerard answered. “His father must have known about this.”

“Why would he give himself up?” Allison softly questioned.

“He cares about his precious little Resistance enough to die for it,” Kate explained. “They’re foolish parasites, deserving nothing but to be crushed by the heel of our boot.”

“He’s not the leader,” Chris thoughtfully mumbled to himself.

“You think he’s bluffing,” Kate replied.

“I think he’s trying to protect someone he cares about,” Chris corrected her. He released a heavy sigh, shaking his head. “Regardless, you played into his hand and made a vow to release the others. Release them, and we’ll have to figure out how to handle Stiles.”

“He named himself as the leader, _after_ I vowed to make the Resistance’s leader meet the executioner’s blade,” Kate vehemently started. “He should die for his cause if he’s so determined to protect the Resistance.”

“He’s the spark the Resistance needs,” Chris uttered. “He’s the focal point that they will rally behind, and Stiles knows that. No matter who he named, our response was bound to cause chaos, and he knew it.”

“He is but a child,” Gerard drawled.

“And a _child_ bested you,” Chris’ voice boomed with authority as he challenged his father. “If we follow through with action against Stiles, we do it for the right reasons—not _your_ pride. Bethahn has lost enough, thanks to your pride.”

“What would you suggest, dear brother?” Kate asked, trying to steer the conversation away from an argument occurring between her father and brother.

“Cast him out,” Chris stated. “He’s more of a threat to us dead than he is alive.”

~*~

“We know you aren’t the leader,” Kate stated as she circled Stiles like a hawk. “Recant your statement, and we won’t have to get it out of your father.”

Stiles glared at her—a glare he had perfected from watching Derek.

“Strange,” Kate mockingly thought aloud. “I distinctly remember hearing about you being rather mouthy.”

“Sorry to disappoint,” Stiles flippantly remarked.

Kate didn’t even bother to signal the guard to backhand Stiles. A small glint of glee flickered in her eyes when Stiles spit the blood from his mouth. She bent down to Stiles’ level, inspecting him carefully before taking his chin between her fingers. “There are fates far worse than death, Stiles,” she softly stated, her thumb traced along Stiles’ bottom lip. “I’m not ashamed to admit that I’ve used them before.” Her voice was soft, almost as if she wasn’t speaking about such sordid acts. “So tell me, Stiles. Would you rather die with the dignity of knowing you protected your loved ones? Or,” she paused as she tightened her grip on Stiles’ chin, to the point of causing Stiles to wince. “Would you prefer I tattoo their names into your skin before laying you out to dry in the sun?”

Stiles’ eyes flickered across Kate’s face. His mind told him it was a lost cause—that even if he died, there was no guarantee that Kira could still help the Resistance from Ytir. There was no guarantee that Kate would release them—that she would leave Stiles’ father alone. There was no guarantee, but there was still hope. Hope that it all meant something.

“Threatening me won’t change the fact that I am the Kitsune,” Stiles answered.

“Foolish boy,” Kate harshly breathed, shoving Stiles backwards as she released her hold on him.

~*~

“Stiles,” Scott gently called his name, turning his head to survey the room. He wanted to make sure that the Argents weren’t watching.

“What do you want, Scott?” Stiles questioned, not bothering to look up at him.

Scott frowned. “She said it was to protect you. She … _I_ was wrong,” he corrected himself. “If I knew—Stiles, if I knew this would have happened, I wouldn’t have said anything.”

“But you did,” Stiles countered.

“Not maliciously,” Scott tried to explain. “I messed up, I know that. Please, Stiles, tell me how to fix it—to _try_ and fix it.”

Stiles turned to look up at Scott. “Why try now?” He questioned, his eyes narrowing on Scott.

Scott shrunk under Stiles’ gaze. “Because I was wrong to think that telling Kate about you—about the Resistance—would keep anyone safe. She promised leniency. She promised to stop the tattooing—I thought of you, Stiles. I tried to think what you would want.”

Stiles sighed, running a hand over his features. “I wish you had trusted me.”

“I did,” Scott argued. “I didn’t trust _them_.”

“They are just like us, Scott,” Stiles replied. He paused, scanning Scott’s features. “If you want to make this right, help them.”

Scott’s eyes widened a little.

“Help them escape this place,” Stiles specified. He looked down at his arms, at the intricate tattoos wrapping around his wrists. “Help them save Bethahn from itself.”

~*~

Stiles’ muscles ached, his entire body protesting the walk to the scaffolding. His eyes scanned the crowd, looking at familiar faces.

There were no cheers, no calls for Stiles’ death. Silence, soft murmurs not daring to break the strange stupor falling over them.

Stiles winced when the guard kicked his knees out from under him, abruptly falling to the wooden structure. He ignored Gerard’s words—words that would most likely be followed by some flowery lies falling from Kate’s mouth. He looked out among the people, watching them stare right back at him. He recognized some of the faced—friends, soldiers in the employ of his father. He looked for his father, scanning the faces for a sign that he was okay, that the Argents had left him alone.

“Do I get to speak?” Stiles interrupted Gerard’s words. He turned to look at the King Regent. “Do I get to speak?” He questioned again, louder, when no one answered him.

“You don’t deserve to have your words heard,” Gerard answered.

“He’s about to die,” Allison spoke against her grandfather. “Surely the words of a traitor are harmless enough to be heard.”

Stiles turned to look at Allison, slowly evaluating her motives. He took her look of sympathy as genuine, one unmatched by her family. He waited for Gerard to give him the scaffolding. He took an unsure step forward, his body heavy with slight regret. He turned his attention towards the crowd. If he could reach them—if he could reason with them, then his regret would be small and unfounded.

“You’ve probably been told the worst,” Stiles started, his eyes moving across the crowd. “Been told some lie about why I deserve to die—about how I stand for everything Bethahn doesn’t.” He took a deep breath. “They’re right.

“I stand here, in name of everything Bethahn isn’t. Because Bethahn isn’t the people’s any longer—it belongs to a sickly warped father and daughter,” Stiles turned to look at Gerard and Kate as he spoke. “Bethahn used to be more—to mean more—than what we’ve let it become.” He looked out at the people.

“This is your city they aim to control,” Stiles loudly announced. “Don’t fight for them. Don’t fight for _their_ kingdom. Fight for _you_. For your people—for _yourselves_! Do not let oppression win just because they have silenced one voice—you are a thousand voices! Stand up and be heard!”

“Enough of this,” Gerard angrily breathed, murderously glaring at Stiles.

Stiles turned his attention towards the Argents, his back towards the executioner. “I die knowing the Resistance doesn’t end with me. I die with a clear conscience, which is more than you’ll ever be able to say.”

Stiles was satisfied with himself when he heard the murmur amongst the crowd getting louder. They heard him—they _agreed_ with him. That was enough.

Stiles allowed the executioner to tie his hands to the floorboards, his eyes focusing on the rope entwined around his wrists, not bothering to fight. He closed his eyes, thinking about the others. He prayed that his father was safe; that Lydia has managed to keep the others on track; that Isaac, Boyd, and Erica were finally home. Lastly, his thoughts drifted to Derek. He thought about their kiss—the way Derek’s lips felt against his own; the way his body lit up with excitement whenever he recalled the feeling.

Stiles waited. He wondered if it would be quick—if he would feel the blade slicing its way through his neck. He considered himself lucky enough to be sentenced to beheading rather than burning.

Stiles startled at the loud thump of the executioner’s blade when it collided with the boards, the rope holding him down suddenly jolted free. He opened his eyes to stare at his hands in disbelief, quickly turning to look up at the executioner.

The executioner moved to grab Princess Allison, yanking her over to him in order to use as a shield.

“Allison!” Chris yelled as he moved forward.

“I wouldn’t move,” the executioner stated.

Stiles recognized his voice. “Dad?” He asked in disbelief.

The executioner removed his hood to reveal none other than the General.

“This is treason,” Gerard hissed.

“You threaten my son, I threaten your granddaughter,” the General countered, moving his hand to cover Allison’s throat. “I’d say it’s a fair trade off.”

The General took a step back, Allison stumbling with him, when Chris moved forward. “You know I’m capable of crushing her windpipe with just enough pressure. I’d suggest staying back.” His eyes flickered to Stiles, quickly jutting his chin out towards the crowd. “Go, Stiles.”

“Dad—”

“I’m right behind you,” the General answered. “Now go.”

Stiles knew his father wouldn’t hurt Allison. He just hoped that the Argents didn’t know that. He made a quick dash towards the crowd, instantly recognizing Parrish, one of his father’s lieutenants. He jumped down off of the scaffolding, thankful for Parrish catching him.

Something happened, loud noises and protests being spoken. Stiles didn’t dare look back—he’d run back to his father if he did. He kept pushing forward, his heart slamming in his chest as he ran. The crowd made a path for him, their shouts becoming louder and more chaotic.

Stiles could hear Kate’s voice shrieking orders to the guards, while the soldiers—his father’s soldiers—did their best to protect the populace as the beginning of a riot broke out.

“Kill them! Kill every last one of them!” Kate demanded.

~*~

The train still ran through Bethahn’s fields, moving from the city and towards the edge of the kingdom. It was a ghost train, no one utilizing it as they stayed close to the heart of the city, simply using the empty space to carry food from the distant fields and into the city.

The once green fields that surrounded Bethahn were nothing but dried up wastelands now, the crops being forgotten in favor of sun bathing. The trains made it easier to get by the Wasteland, bringing supplies to both farmers and troops.

There were plenty of people from the Boxes wandering the Wasteland, aimlessly trudging about as they waited for their tattoos to absorb enough nourishment.

Stiles had run to the train, the sound of footsteps chasing after him close behind. His breath was sharp and unsteady in his lungs, stumbling as he made his way towards the moving metal box. He was surprised when he saw Scott manning one of the many shuttle cars.

Scott immediately leaned out of one of the train’s sliding door, offering an outstretched arm to Stiles. He clasped Stiles’ hands tightly, pulling Stiles up into the cart before quickly depositing him on the ground.

Stiles scurried into the cart, trying to wiggle his hands out of the ropes.

“Here, sweetie,” Scott’s mom offered, moving forward to help Stiles with his restraints.

“Melissa,” Stiles started, shocked to see her there. “What are you—”

“Scott told me everything,” Melissa explained, her hands making quick work of the entwined rope. “I informed your father—the man wouldn’t stop storming the Argent’s palace, demanding answers. He finally stopped when I reasoned with him enough to device a plan.”

Stiles stood, surprised when Allison suddenly entered the same boxcar. He was even more surprised when Melissa moved to help Allison.

“Are you okay?” Melissa asked, helping the princess to stand.

“Yes,” Allison stated with a small smile of gratitude. “I was startled that my father wasn’t going to let us leave.”

“What the hell is happening?” Stiles demanded, his eyes flickering back and forth between the women.

“Calm down,” Melissa started, moving to the boxcar’s door to help Scott with the other soldiers coming to join them. “We’ll explain in a moment.”

“I’m sorry you’ve been in the dark about this, Stiles,” Allison started as she moved to make room for everyone else. She moved closer to Stiles, standing by him. “It’s not that we don’t trust you. It’s that my aunt is a cruel woman, who is known for manipulating people into getting her way.”

Stiles was about to speak, pausing when he saw his father finally board the boxcar with the last of the soldiers. He silently moved passed Allison, making his way through the soldiers and straight to his father. He didn’t give his father much of a warning as he ran into his father’s arms. He wrapped his arms around his father, holding him tightly as he memorized what it felt like to hold onto him. He spent the past few days thinking that he’d never get this again—that he’d never see his father again.

“I missed you too, kiddo,” the General stated as he returned Stiles’ hug.

“That was stupid,” Stiles stated, blinking back his tears. “Really stupid.”

“No stupider than my son claiming he’s the face of the revolutionaries,” the General answered.

Stiles released his father when he moved to see to the others. He watched as the soldiers did an assessment of their injuries and losses.

There were a few soldiers holding compresses to their wounds, others trying to help others. Among the soldiers, Stiles noticed that there were a few civilians. They must have evacuated with the soldiers when the riot started to spiral out of control.

Stiles startled some when a hand landed on his shoulder. He turned to look, offering a weak smile to his father. He turned to look back at the people.

“What do we do, dad?” Stiles asked, completely lost for a way to proceed.

“We keep hope alive,” the General answered. “Your mom always said that as long as there was hope, there was a chance of victory.”

“Even when those hopes are slim to none?” Stiles weakly asked.

“I think you’re not giving us credit,” the General commented. He paused, evaluating his son’s profile. “You’re not giving yourself enough credit.”

“Yeah,” Stiles scoffed. “The kid who got tangled up in politics and managed to stumble his way on stage with the real heroes.”

“Kiddo,” the General started, forcing Stiles to turn and face him. “To do what you’ve done … well, it’s nothing short of amazing—it is, don’t roll your eyes at me,” he commented before Stiles was even able to perform the gesture. “You saved those prisoners of war. You gave the people hope that their lives wouldn’t end with Kira’s death. You showed them what it means to have loyalty and dedication to the cause.”

Stiles looked down out of shame, wanting to keep his dad from seeing how uncomfortable he was with aligning himself with such praise. He didn’t deserve it—how could he? So many other people had already given so much for the cause, and he was just catching up.

“I’m proud of you, son,” the General stated. “I’m more proud of you than I should be for you committing treason and being sentenced to death by the royal family.”

Stiles released a soft laugh, looking up at his dad. He allowed his dad to ruffle his hair, shoving himself away from the affection. He let his father speak with his lieutenants as he moved to the far wall where Allison was sitting, keeping her distance from the others as she pretended to be captive. He plopped down next to Allison, watching the others.

“He’s right Stiles,” Allison stated as she turned to look at him.

Stiles turned his attention towards Allison.

“The Resistance couldn’t have made it this far without you,” Allison clarified. “We tried to gain a foothold in the city for some time, but we could only win over the Boxes. There’s no middle class, and it’s hard to convince the wealthy that something needs to change—especially when my family lines their pockets with gold.”

“ _We_?” Stiles arched his eyebrow in question.

“Oh, yeah,” Allison stated, a small laugh working its way up through her chest. “I haven’t been completely honest with you—none of us have. That’s what I’m not ashamed of, really. We didn’t know if we could trust you, so Kira mentioned getting Deaton to give the books to you.”

“Kira told Deaton to …” Stiles’ eyes widened. “Oh my … you guys … you played me!” He loudly announced in shock.

“To be fair, we lied to you, but with the intent of telling you,” Allison quickly stated.

“That’s still _lying_ , Allison,” Stiles reprimanded her.

“I know,” Allison sighed. “I just … my family doesn’t know about my involvement—almost none of the Resistance members do. Kira is keeping it really close to her heart.”

“So, what happens now?” Stiles asked, looking at Allison. “We just march into Ytir and act all friendly with them— _hoping_ that they forgive all the people they lost in the war?”

“Thanks to your brilliant negotiating skills, no,” Allison replied. “Kira and Lydia are already there. And the others—the Patients—we might—”

“They have names,” Stiles stated, cutting Allison off. “The experiments? Those might be something you want to _not_ mention in front of them.”

“Right,” Allison answered, looking down at her feet. “I’m new to this.”

“Working out foreign policy?” Stiles asked as he turned to look at Allison.

“No,” Allison truthfully answered, a sad smile pulling at his lips. “Attempting to lead.”

Stiles gently bumped his shoulder against Allison’s, offering her a small smile. “You’re doing better than me.”

Allison smiled.

Melissa moved to kneel beside Allison, undoing the ropes around her wrists. “We should be reaching the borders pretty soon, which means we’ll have to make a rushed move to abandon train, just in case there are scouts still out.”

The borders.

Stiles forgot that they were actually going to Ytir. They were going to cross the borders—they were going to be leaving Bethahn behind. Anxiety sunk in his stomach like a rock in a river. Everything seemed so final—as if their every decision was the last one to be made, which held a significant amount of truth to it.

Erica. Boyd. Isaac. Derek. They all accepted Stiles and the others as friends—allies even. But there was no telling how the rest of Ytir was going to react to finding Bethahnians on their doorsteps, talk of peace on their lips.

“ETA: 3 minutes,” the General announced over the others.

Stiles moved to stand, following Melissa and his father towards the open boxcar’s door. He offered Scott a weak smile as he came to stand by him. He leaned his head out far enough to catch sight of the end of the line—the military station that was meant to protect the one route of transportation from the outskirts back to the city.

This was the farthest Stiles had ever come before, never being outside the city’s walls. Everything was impossibly quiet, even the boxcar of people surrounding Stiles breathed lightly—almost nonexistent. His eyes widened slightly when he saw that the closer they got to Ytir—the further away from Bethahn—the rougher the land became.

Rough. Harsh. Unyielding. The ground had started to turn to rock and dirt, leaving the soil that covered even the Wasteland. He had wondered, many nights, what type of kingdom Derek hailed from, but he never imagined one as dry as this.

Stiles never heard of this condition before, used to the supple greenery of the city.

What was happening to the world? And why wasn’t anyone listening?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Little less of a cliffhanger and a little more of a "WHEN WILL DEREK AND STILES BE REUNITED?" Hint: Next chapter.


	5. United By the Truth

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay, lovelies. Life is hectic, but I'm really pleased by the overall interest in this fic. Updates are always coming, promise <3

Ytir was as rough and unyielding as Stiles thought it would be. The ground was cracked open, the moisture long since evaporating from the rock below. The plain was vast, stretching open for miles—as far as the eye could see.

Stiles had never seen anything like it before.

There were patches here and there that offered shelter from the blistering sun, but most of the land was decaying. He was surprised how much easier it was for the Bethahnians to traverse the plains than the Ytirians when they met. The Ytirians were hesitant to help, on guard the moment they caught sight of the soldiers. Stiles was thankful that his father was a pacifist, able to calm the Ytirians into speaking with them.

Stiles was cautious when two of the Ytirians approached him, their eyes scanning his arms before speaking to one another in their native language. He heard one of them utter ‘ _lŷtling_ ’, causing him to quickly look up at them.

“ _Lŷtling_ ,” Stiles stated in excitement, pointing to himself. “Erica. Erica called me _lŷtling_ ,” he explained when the Ytirians startled. He obeyed when one of them motioned to his arm, putting his tattoos on display.

One of the Ytirians nodded, accepting his tattoos as correct. They looked to the General, speaking to him in Ytirian, which surprised Stiles when his father answered them back.

“You never said you knew Ytirian,” Stiles commented as he came to stand by his father, the Ytirians guiding them forward.

“You never asked,” the General answered. “Besides, haven’t you been learning it?”

Stiles released a small laugh. “Yeah, I guess you have a point there.”

“Did they call you ‘little one’?” The General asked, arching his eyebrow in question.

“It’s a long story, but yeah,” Stiles replied.

The journey was long but worth it. When Stiles first caught sight of Ytir’s heart—the Baile, as Erica had called it—he could barely believe what he was seeing. There were segmented camps, surrounding the ruins of an ancient structure. Green gardens decorated the mountains around the Baile, a flowing waterfall cascading down those mountains to fill the small pool by the camps. It was beautiful, even among the harsh contrast of the surrounding plains.

Stiles followed the rest down the steep incline; his footsteps were steady as he continuously stumbled over watching the way the Baile bustled with people. He noticed the way people halted their movements when catching sight of the outsiders. He frowned a little when the children backed away from them, a look of fear and uncertainty covering their young faces. He wished he could reassure them that they weren’t there to hurt them.

“ _Lŷtling_!” Erica’s voice rang through the crowd, her hurried footsteps causing the others to part.

Stiles smiled when he saw Erica bouncing towards him, quickly moving to meet her. He laughed when she tightly wrapped her arms around him, smiling at the finally knowing that she was safe.

“I can’t believe you made it,” Erica stated in excitement. “I told them to keep a look out for you.”

“I think that’s what saved us,” Stiles answered.

“I told them to keep an eye out for a moley brunette who answered to _lŷtling_ ,” Erica proudly stated as she released him.

“I think they were confused that I was a grown man,” Stiles replied with a soft smile.

Erica toothily grinned as she put her arm around Stiles’ shoulders, walking him towards the center of the Baile. “We need to get you to the others—everyone’s been worried sick about you.”

Stiles released a small, worried laugh as he tried to shake the feeling of giddiness in his stomach. He was constantly thinking about the others during his stay in the Argents’ dungeons, never thinking that they would really be caught thinking about him in return.

“Stiles!”

Stiles turned to see Lydia running at him, her hair bouncing around her as she pushed through the people. He startled when she grabbed him by the arms, shaking him.

“Why did you do that?” Lydia demanded. “You could have died, Stiles, do you realize that?”

“Lydia—”

“I thought I’d never see you again,” Lydia quickly uttered. “Stiles, you could have … They could have killed you.”

“I know,” Stiles stated, moving to hold onto her arms to keep her upright. “I know, but I couldn’t let them hurt you guys.”

Lydia moved to hug Stiles, pulling him into her embrace. She blinked her tears away, holding onto Stiles longer than necessary.

Stiles wrapped his arms around her, holding back his smile at being together again. He noticed the way Ytirians watched them, as if they were anomalies. Technically, they were—Bethahnians sympathetic to the masses, breaking loyalties to the Royal family.

“Are you okay?” Stiles finally asked, pulling back to look at Lydia.

“Yes,” Lydia confessed, her eyes suddenly catching sight of Allison. “Yes, I’m fine,” her voice was steady, almost relieved at having caught sight of the princess.

“Is Derek … ” Stiles took a steady breath. “Is Derek well?”

Lydia tore her eyes from Allison, smiling when she knowingly looked at Stiles. “Yes,” she affirmed. “He’s actually in the middle of a council meeting with the Elders. He’s … well, he’s trying to get a mission sanctioned to go back.” She gestured towards the center of the Baile, the formation of ancient stones.

Stiles looked behind Lydia, noting that the stones appeared old in age, but well kept, as if they were maintained daily.

“We actually should get him to stop the petition,” Lydia quickly stated, taking Stiles by the hand and leading him towards the formation.

Stiles let Lydia lead him towards the stones, his eyes overwhelmed by the people and places around them. He noticed the way the people respected the stones, carefully stepping around them—some of the people were even tending to various flowers planted around the stones, a type of protective decoration.

The steps descended from the middle of the stones, leading deep down into the earth. It was colder than Stiles thought possible, intrigued by the way the soil stood firm as walls around them, refusing to crumble. An earthy smell overpowered Stiles’ senses, never having been underground without steel and concrete surrounding him. He paused when he caught sight of drawings decorating the walls, taking in the different symbols and pictures that were illuminated by the torches’ light. It was Lydia pulling on his hand that pushed Stiles forward, both of them moving to stand in front of a set of ornate doors. He immediately noticed the triskelion high up on the center of the door.

“The life of one Bethahnian isn’t worth the risk,” an older man’s voice cut through the cracked door.

“He risked his life for us—he _saved_ us from execution. He’ll be dead if we don’t help him.”

Stiles recognized Derek’s voice. He made a move to open the doors—to make himself known—when Lydia stopped him.

“He was your guard while you were a prisoner, correct?” The older man’s voice questioned.

A pregnant pause. “Yes,” Derek admitted. “But he was working against the Argents along with Dr. Martin. They were all working against the Argents to help the Resistance.”

“Elder Hale,” a female voice interrupted. “We offered refuge to a number of those fleeing Bethahn’s grasp—why end there? He is but one addition.”

“He’s the General of Bethan’s son,” the older man’s voice answered. “Who’s to say that he didn’t bewitch my nephew’s heart to be his—to do as he wants. To lead him back here and destroy us.”

“I’ve learned my lesson,” Derek bitterly snapped. “I am not under another’s spell. It’s the right thing to do.”

Lydia rapped her knuckles against the door, announcing themselves as formally arriving.

“Enter,” the female voice called.

Lydia pushed open the doors, looking back at Stiles and nodding. She moved forward, into the chambers.

Stiles stared in awe at the chamber. It was a vast circular room, varying strong pigments of brown and orange clay seemed to own the room, light bursting to the brink thanks to the roaring fire. The ceiling was graced with an intricate chandelier created from the remains of a tree. The branches twisted and looped in chaotic elegance, candles burning where leaves would once be.

Tears burned Stiles’ eyes as he took in the sight of the tree. He’d seen the drawings Derek had done while in the Research Department—the beauty of strong limbs and unyielding resistance. He never thought he’d see one, even the hollowed out body of one. He never knew one had been so well preserved.

“Lydia,” one of the people greeted Lydia, recognition in their voice.

“I wanted to inform you that General Stilinski and more than half of the Bethahnian army has arrived,” Lydia explained. “To negotiate an alliance!” She yelled over the loud protests and sharp panic that fell over the people. “The General brought Allison Argent with him. He also brought his son,” she added, looking at Derek.

Derek immediately whipped around to look at Lydia, catching sight of Stiles lingering behind her. His feet stumbled, attempting to move forward. He stilled, holding himself back as the Elders spoke. His eyes never left Stiles.

Stiles wiped the few tears from his face as he turned to look at them. He offered Derek a faint smile, trying to keep himself calm as he wanted nothing more than to head over and hug Derek.

“Have General Stilinski come meet with us,” one of the Elders instructed.

“Derek,” the same male voice from before called. He was clearly one of the Elders. His features were similar to Derek’s—older and more worn, yet still sharper. He cast a critical gaze on Stiles before looking back at Derek. “I think you’re finished here.”

Derek tore his eyes from Stiles, turning to look at the older man. He nodded in agreement, bowing his head out of respect. “Elder Hale,” he almost grumbled before turning away from the council. He moved towards Lydia and Stiles, making his way passed them. His gaze lingered on Stiles.

“Lydia,” Elder Hale called her name. “I think you should escort General Stilinski’s son outside. We’ll have to discuss negotiations with his father.”

Stiles knew when he was being dismissed.

“With respect, Elder Hale,” Lydia addressed him. “Stiles is one of Kira’s closest advisors. He’s also the one that negotiated the release of several Resistance members, including your nephew.”

“As Derek likes to remind me,” Elder Hale replied. “Regardless, General Stilinski and Kira will be present to inform us of what has happened.”

“That’s fine,” Stiles stated, resting a hand on Lydia’s shoulder.

Lydia hesitated before nodding. She moved to escort Stiles out of the council room.

“They shouldn’t just close you out like that,” Lydia hissed as she shut the door.

“Lydia, it’s understandable,” Stiles replied as he followed her up the steps. “I’m an outsider—they don’t know if they can trust me.”

“But they’ll trust your father,” Lydia countered.

“My father is the General of the Bethahnian soldiers that are currently occupying the Baile,” Stiles answered. “My father has soldiers that could be greatly beneficial to Ytir. I have nothing.”

“You have your father,” Lydia stated. “You have Derek.”

“Derek—”

“—was adamant about mounting a rescue,” Lydia stopped, near the top of the stairs, turning to look at Stiles. “He refused to accept that it was a lost cause, and that we should just let you die there. He even argued against being released when the Argent guards came to free us—Kate laughed in his face, taunting him that he was never going to see you again, just like with his—” She stopped herself, releasing a heavy breath. “You have more friends—loved ones—than you think,” she finally stated.

Stiles faintly nodded, moving to follow her the rest of the way out. He squinted when the sunlight caught his eyes. He placed a hand to his forehead, a mock visor to help him see. He wasn’t used to the absence of buildings blocking the light. He paused his walking, allowing his hand to fall by his side when he saw Derek standing by Erica and Boyd.

Derek shook his head, uttering something to Erica, who scoffed at him before playfully punching his shoulder. He scowled at her, turning his head to catch sight of Stiles. A flicker of relief—happiness—crossed Derek’s features as he closed the space between them.

Stiles felt unsure, something bubbling in his chest as he waited for Derek to reach him. He startled when Derek pulled him into a tight embrace. He smiled, wrapping his arms around Derek’s back as he closed his eyes. He pressed his face into the curve of Derek’s neck.

“ _Lufiend_ ,” Derek breathed against Stiles’ hairline.

Stiles didn’t know what the word meant, but he felt the value behind it—the tenderness of the word. He caught the way Erica was staring, slack jawed, at them. Whatever the word was, Erica looked as if she never thought she’d live to hear Derek utter it.

Derek pulled back, eyes scanning Stiles’ face. “You’re okay?”

Stiles offered a small smile. “Yeah,” he offered with a faint laugh. “Surprisingly, I’m okay.”

Derek reached a hand up to cup Stiles’ face. His thumb caressed along Stiles’ cheekbone. He smiled when Stiles pressed into his palm.

A throat clearing forced them apart. Derek let his hand fall from Stiles, turning to look at the owner. Stiles groaned when he realized it was his dad.

The General uttered something in Ytirian to Derek.

Derek nodded in response, a faint blush dusting his cheeks.

The General offered him a smile, clapping a hand on Derek’s back before looking at Stiles.

Stiles narrowed his eyes at his father, curious what was going on.

“Stiles!” Kira’s voice broke through the moment, the noise of hurried footsteps accompanied.

“Kira,” Stiles smiled when he saw her running towards him. He welcomed her with open arms, hugging her tightly.

“I’m so glad you’re alright,” Kira quickly stated. “I can’t believe you managed to outwit the Argents. I can’t believe you tried to sacrifice yourself—for _me_. Stiles, you shouldn’t have—”

“I’m one person, Kira,” Stiles explained. “I’m just a person that tried to make a difference. I knew that you’d keep the fight going—that the Resistance is _you_.”

Kira frowned. “We’re not just one person, Stiles.”

Stiles shook his head in disagreement. “Kira, you give them something they’ve never had before—you give them hope. You give _me_ hope. Kira, you’re amazing.”

“And you gave the people their voices back,” Kira answered with a smile. “You shook their shackles for them—you made them hear their oppression.” She looked back at Scott. “Your friend was telling me what you did—how you spoke out against the Argents in front of the Gallows.”

Stiles briefly looked at Scott, offering a faint nod before looking back at Kira. “If I agree, will you stop trying to praise me?”

“Never,” Kira smiled.

“Kira, General Stilinski,” Lydia interrupted them. “The council wants to see you—just the two of you. They want to devise a plan.”

Stiles parted from Kira, allowing her and his father to head with Lydia back down into the council chambers. He turned to look at Scott before looking at Derek. “I need to talk with him,” he explained when he noticed that Derek was glaring at Scott. “Can we talk afterwards?”

Derek looked at Stiles, hesitating before faintly nodding.

Stiles placed a reassuring hand on Derek’s arm, smiling before moving to talk with Scott.

“Hey,” Scott greeted him.

“Hey,” Stiles echoed. “So, you told Kira about … what happened?”

“I told her it was my fault,” Scott confirmed. “She … she told me she didn’t blame me.”

Stiles nodded. “Kira’s like that. She doesn’t hold grudges.”

“Stiles—”

“—Scott, I’m not going to blame you,” Stiles quickly stated. “Is it what I would have done? No—hell no. But you thought you were doing what was right—and you acknowledge that you messed up. That’s really all I can ask of you to do.”

Scott hesitated, weakly nodding in defeat. “It’s just … this whole situation,” he sighed.

“It’s nothing we were prepared for,” Stiles replied. “But I’m not going to apologize,” he explained. “I’m never going to apologize for choosing this—this is the right path, Scott. This is _my_ path.”

~*~

Stiles sat with Scott at one of the fires as the sun disappeared beneath the roaring mountains in the distance. He smiled when he caught sight of his father and Kira finally exiting the stairs towards the council chambers—no sign of Derek.

Derek had disappeared a while ago, descending into the council chambers almost immediately after Kira and the General.

Stiles turned his attention towards Boyd and Isaac, knowing that one of them would know what _lufiend_ meant. “What did Derek call me?”

“Oh, no,” Isaac immediately stated. “I’m not even going to dare to touch that.”

Boyd released a faint chuckle.

“How would you like it if I called you _lufiend_ ,” Stiles angrily countered, fully believing now that Derek had insulted him.

“Please don’t,” Boyd grimaced.

“I think Derek would kill us if he knew you called us that and not him,” Isaac answered. “Don’t _ever_ call one of us _lufiend_.”

“You make it sound bad,” Stiles countered.

“It’s not _bad_ ,” Boyd replied. “It’s … personal.”

“If it’s so personal, why didn’t Derek tell me?” Stiles demanded.

“Wait, he didn’t tell you?” Erica butted in as she came to sit on the ground, wiggling her way between Boyd and the fire.

“No,” Stiles answered.

Erica bit out a curse in Ytirian. “That is just like Derek, you know? Making a declaration like that.”

“A declaration?” Stiles questioned.

Boyd tapped Erica’s thigh, gesturing towards Stiles.

“Oh, I’m not telling you, _lŷtling_ ,” Erica answered. “It’s something extremely personal, and since it’s Derek … well, he should be the one to tell you.”

Stiles sighed. “I haven’t seen him.”

“You could ask Kira and your father if they’ve seen him,” Scott offered.

Stiles turned to look at his father and Kira, both of them conversing with Lydia and Allison. He noticed the way one of the Elders that emerged from the stairs was watching Melissa.

“I’ll ask,” Stiles offered, standing to head over to this father. He narrowed his eyes when he saw the Elder approach Melissa, talking to her in soft tones.

“Hey, kiddo,” the General offered a pleased smile.

“Everything okay?” Stiles curiously asked as he looked at Kira.

“It could have gone worse,” Kira answered. “We explained that we had a plan to place Allison on the throne once we usurped Kate and Gerard.”

“You can imagine how that went over,” the General commented.

“We explained that Allison was a peacekeeper, not a tyrant—that her father knows the laws and how to benevolently rule a kingdom, and that he’d help her,” Kira added. “Your father spoke very well about his own experiences with the Argents. He informed the Elders that we don’t have long before the Argents try to retaliate—to massacre us.”

“I think they’ll see reason,” the General offered when he saw the way the Elder embraced Melissa.

“What’s going on?” Stiles asked, seeing the faint glint in his father’s eyes as they watched the Elder speaking with Melissa.

“I made a promise to Melissa a long time ago—after Rafael died,” the General explained. “I told her I’d bring her home.” He looked from Melissa to Stiles. “And I finally brought her home.”

Stiles looked from his dad to Melissa, his eyes immediately seeking out Scott. “They’re … they’re Ytirian?”

“Melissa’s family name is Delgado,” the General answered.

“The Delgados were thought to be wiped out,” Derek’s voice explained.

Stiles looked at Derek.

“Elder Delgado spoke about a daughter,” Derek continued. “She said that her daughter was safe in Bethahn’s walls—protected by a soldier.” He looked at the General. “She died knowing her daughter and grandson lived.”

“I wish I got her back here before that,” the General admitted. He looked at Stiles, then Derek. He offered a faint smile and brief nod. “I’ll help Melissa break the news to Scott.”

Stiles watched his father and Kira go over to the fire where Scott lingered. He noticed the way Scott smiled when he saw Kira. He wondered how Scott was going to react to hearing that he was Ytirian—the grandson of an Elder.

“What’s going to happen?” Stiles asked as he turned to Derek.

Derek was watching as the Elder and Melissa spoke to Scott. “Now that the Delgado and Yukimura clans are represented once more, there will be a vote,” he explained, looking at Stiles. “The Elders will gather and vote on a course of action.”

“And you?” Stiles asked.

“I’ll … I will do what my people ask of me,” Derek answered as he looked back at the ruins, his eyes fixated on the stones in the center of the Baile.

“The Triskelion,” Stiles started, moving closer to Derek. “You said it was your family’s. I saw it on the door to the council chambers.”

Derek hesitated before nodding. “I belong to one of the oldest clans in Ytir—the Hale family is a strong and proud one. One that nearly crumbled thanks to a foolish childlike hope.” He drew in a deep breath, allowing the silence to drag on before he finally released it. “It’s only my uncle and me now.”

“Are you an Elder?” Stiles curiously asked.

“No,” Derek replied. “I’m an unofficial advisor—the council’s eyes and ears on the ground; among the people.”

“So, you don’t have a say in what happens?” Stiles asked. “No matter how passionately you may sell something?”

“Sometimes personal emotions can cloud judgement and make us commit acts that we cannot undo—that may cause more harm,” Derek answered. “I have to trust in the judgement of the Elders.”

“They were saying no,” Stiles commented. “They were telling you to leave it alone—to leave me in Bethahn.”

“I know,” Derek replied.

“Would you?” Stiles asked. “Would you have left me there?”

Derek was silent, taking in his thoughts—curious how he would have proceeded when the Elders told him no. When he was commanded to leave Stiles to die for something that wasn’t his doing.

“They would have used you for the martyrdom,” Derek answered. “I would have mourned you. If I had been successful in convincing myself not to go back.” He looked at Stiles. “That was my third and final repeal to head back to Bethahn for you. I knew, deep down, that it was going to be my last. It made it easier for me to accept—for me to renounce my vow to protect my country’s fate in order to save yours. Because whatever I am to you … you’re more to me than my own life. There’s something about you—Stiles, I don’t know what it is, but it feels like something is caught in my chest, and the thought of being separated from you—of losing you—rips that thing away, and my heart hurts to think it.”

“ _Lufiend_?” Stiles barely whispered, his voice caught in his throat as he ignored the tears burning his eyes.

Derek looked up at Stiles, a faint look of wide-eyed surprise covering his features. He nodded in reply. “There’s no word in Bethahnian that matches it—”

“—I think I understand,” Stiles offered. “Besides, hearing from everyone in camp that you were going nuts without me around kind of clued me in.” He offered a faint laugh when he saw the scowl Derek directed at Erica, Boyd, and Isaac. “I get it, you’re like a little lost kitten, and I’m totally catnip—”

Derek grabbed Stiles, pulling him in. His lips paused near Stiles, waiting for permission as his arms held Stiles close.

Stiles pressed his lips against Derek’s, his mind constantly focusing on the memory of how Derek’s kiss in the cells felt. He wanted more—he wanted it to mean more than just a spur of the moment kiss. He wanted it to mean the world to them both. He twisted his hands in Derek’s shirt, holding him close. The kiss was slow and controlled—it was perfect.

The worries of tomorrow faded into the night with the soft crackle of the fires scattered throughout the Baile.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The real meaning--a more thorough meaning--of the word _lufiend_ will be explained to Stiles by an outside party in the next chapter, as Stiles assumes that Derek's meaning is just a type of wanting/desire. It's so much more than that, and it's beautiful.
> 
> Anglo-Saxon words used as Ytirian words:
> 
> lāđgenīđla (lath-yen-e-th-la) – foe, enemy
> 
> lŷtling (loot-ling) – little one, (infant/child)
> 
> yfel (oo-fell) – evil, harm, wicked, vile
> 
> lufiend (l-uh-v-e-end) – [To Be Revealed]


	6. Lufiend

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys! I know it's been a long time coming, but here is the next installment.
> 
> I have officially graduated and am applying to jobs right now, and cover letters are torture! So, I've been trying to take my mind off of everything by writing more.
> 
> I actually stalled this chapter posting because of everything happening in the world. I didn't feel comfortable releasing this chapter in light of all the violence that happened over the weekend. I know it's only Tuesday, and I'm still reeling from it, but I figured you'd enjoy a chapter with a great deal of dialogue and connecting.
> 
> Anyways! I hope you guys enjoy this chapter!
> 
> [And by the way ... sex. It happens. Enjoy.]

Stiles smiled as he watched the people celebrating, grateful that his father was able to help the Bethahnian soldiers blend together with the Ytirians. There was a great bonfire lit in front of them, flames dancing to life as their light illuminated the dancers’ bodies. Stiles watched as the dancers melded together and apart, dancing to the beat of the drums and chants of the singers. Some of the words sounded familiar to Stiles, but he couldn’t fully make them out.

Stiles smiled at his father when he came to sit next to him, accepting the bowl of food from his father’s outstretched hand. It was a mixture of vegetables, some ingredients he had never seen before—he believed the Ytirians called it rice.

“Are you feeling well?” The General asked as he sat beside Stiles.

“Better than I have been in a while,” Stiles honestly answered.

“You seem calmer,” the General commented.

Stiles looked up from the bowl, observing his father. “I think getting out of the city helped,” he offered.

A small, fond smile pulled at the General lips as he placed a comforting hand on his son’s shoulder. “I’m sorry I lied to you.”

“And I’m sorry I lied to you,” Stiles echoed.

“I’m the parent, though,” the General countered. “I’m not supposed to shelter you from life.”

Stiles was silent as he listened to the violin’s melody growing louder through the crackling of the fire. He looked over at Erica and Boyd, watching them dance together in harmony.

Everything here seemed to hold so much more life than Bethahn. Bethahn was a routine, something that the masses trudged through instead of enjoyed. Ytir almost felt as an indulgence, as if life was meant to be lived instead of tolerated. It was refreshing to not feel mindless in existence.

“How long?” Stiles finally asked as he turned to look at his father. “How long have you been trying to help?”

“Since your mother,” the General answered, turning his head to see a group of children run by. He smiled at their laughter—a small, sad smile as he reminisced about Claudia. “She never liked the idea of how systematically oppressed Bethahn is. Even after you were born, she tried to volunteer as much of her free time to helping those in the Boxes. I think she knew,” he softly uttered. “I think, before the signs happened, she knew she had limited time, as so many in the Boxes do.”

Stiles gently set his bowl down, pulling one of his knees to his chest. “The triskelion,” he stated, remembering the triple clump of spiral circles decorating Derek’s back. “I saw it when I was younger. In your study,” he explained.

“It’s a symbol that belongs to one of the oldest Ytirian families,” the General started.

“The Hales,” Stiles replied.

“The Hales were invited to a parley between Bethahn and Ytir,” the General explained. “The Hales didn’t know it was a trap, all planned out by Kate and Gerard. They brought them to the Gallows—without a fair trial, they sentenced them to death.” He paused, shaking his head in rejection of his own words. “No, sentenced to death is too kind for what they did.”

“The burning,” Stiles stated, remembering the way his father argued for Stiles’ absence. “Those were Derek’s parents—his family,” he closed his eyes, running a hand over his throat as he coaxed down the lump.

“Claudia was the one that helped Melissa when she first arrived in Bethahn,” the General started. “That’s how I got involved in trying to put an end to this senseless war.”

“Were you in contact with the Hales when the Argents ordered their deaths?” Stiles asked, his hunger being replaced by a welling mountain of dread.

“The Argents used me to lure the Hales into a trap,” the General explained. “I always blamed myself for what happened to the Hales.”

“Dad, you couldn’t have done anything to change the Argents’ decision to kill them,” Stiles argued.

“I was the one that tried to facilitate peace between the two kingdoms,” the General replied. “The Hales were so willing to meet. And I thought the Argents had agreed to a meeting in order to end the fighting. I was excited,” he softly added. “Naively so, to think that the Argents would let it end on peaceful terms.”

“Why?” Stiles questioned. “Why not end it all?”

“Because to the Argents, Bethahn isn’t whole until it rejoins with Ytir,” the General explained. “More like _consumes_ it.”

“Rejoins?” Stiles questioned as he looked at his father.

“The kingdoms used to be one,” the General admitted. “One that wasn’t ravaged by war and paranoia. It’s been such a long time since I’ve been able to admit that.” He looked up at the sky, fondly smiling at the stars. “Beacon, they called it. It was supposed to be a shining example of what life could be like out here.”

“Can’t we make it one kingdom again?” Stiles hopefully asked, turning his sights on the people around them.

“That’s what the Resistance intends. It’s going to be interesting to see what the Elders think,” the General answered.

A small silence fell between them as they both listened to the others telling stories, laughter filling through the Baile. The sky was clear, gorgeous stars twinkling brightly above them. The moon was a solid presence, smiling down on them.

“What about Derek?” Stiles found himself asking.

“What about him?” The General asked, looking at Stiles.

“Why wasn’t he with his family?” Stiles clarified.

“He was,” the General answered, looking away from his son as he recalled the events the day of the stakes lit in the Gallows. “Derek was meant to be a part of an alliance between Bethahn and Ytir—a bridge between the two kingdoms. The Hales are the largest, oldest family in Ytir, and have always had an Elder serving on the council. It’s the closest Ytir has to a royal family.”

“No,” Stiles breathed in protest, closing his eyes when he realized what his father was saying. “He was going to marry Kate,” he stated as he looked up at his father.

The General nodded. “He was only sixteen when he met Kate. He was with her when his family was arrested. Derek’s been a prisoner since then.”

Stiles remained silent as he turned his gaze towards the others. He watched Erica and Boyd talking and laughing as they came back to the campfire Isaac and Scott were sitting by. There was no sign of Derek anywhere.

“He’s been imprisoned for almost a decade,” Stiles finally stated.

“With Kate’s visits as a taunting reminder that his family was dead,” the General answered.

“Did she make him watch?” Stiles asked, his voice hollowed out at the thought of being forced to watch an execution as savage as the burning.

“Stiles—”

“Did she make him watch?” Stiles asked again, much sterner this time.

The General nodded, remembering the way he protested the whole thing, Kate offering to make Stiles light the fires himself if he continued his line of questioning. He recalled the way Derek had struggled against the Royal Guard, yelling and shouting for them to stop. He remembered the way the Queen and King Regent laughed when Derek begged them, pleading for his family’s lives.

“She’s a monster,” Stiles uttered. “Did she—”

“If you want to know more about this, you should be talking to Derek, not me, kiddo,” the General stated, moving to stand.

“How can I ask him about one of the most traumatic moments in his life and expect him not to hate me for asking?” Stiles questioned as he looked at his father.

“You tell him you’re here to listen when he needs to talk,” the General simply answered. “You don’t push, no matter how much you want to know what happened. You were always a curious kid, but you always respected other people, too. You’ll figure it out.” He smiled at he leaned forward, placing a fond kiss into Stiles’ hair. He released a soft chuckle when Stiles batted a hand at him.

Stiles watched as his father departed, happy to see him looking more at ease than under the mountain of paperwork he normally found him under. He knew his father was more of a people-person than he was a bureaucrat—it showed in the way the soldiers listened to him, and the Ytirians grew to trust his presence.

Stiles turned his thoughts from his father, watching the others and their interactions around the campfires.

At one campfire, Erica was arm wrestling with Isaac. Her lips were twisted in playful jest as Isaac’s brow crinkled in determination, both of them focusing on their strained grip. It was Boyd who laughed when Erica finally managed to slam Isaac’s hand down against the table. Isaac tried to protest, claiming that Erica psyched him out, which prompted Erica to ruffle Isaac’s hair like a puppy.

Kira laughed as she watched Isaac and Erica exchange heckles, no malice behind their words. She turned her head to look at Scott, noticing he was lost in thought. She placed a comforting hand on Scott’s, gaining his attention. She offered him a small smile, knowing that he had been lost in his thoughts since before the Elders announced the celebration—the festivity meant to welcome home the Delgados and Yukimura clans. She knew, that in reality, Scott’s world had been flipped upside down in less than one day, and that took a lot out of someone. She was grateful that Scott returned her smile as he joined in the conversation the campfire seemed to begin.

Lydia and Allison were at a more secluded campfire, sitting together in hushed conversation. Lydia reached a hand out, her fingers idly twisting with a strand of Allison’s hair. A small frown fell onto Lydia’s lips as Allison softly uttered an admission as worry perplexed her features.

Stiles wasn’t that surprised when he saw Lydia lean forward, pressing a kiss to Allison’s lips. He was happy for them. It was another reason to continue their fight, knowing that Allison would never be allowed to be with Lydia if the Resistance failed.

Stiles stood, looking around the Baile as he wandered from campfire to campfire. He smiled and spoke with the different Ytirians that warmly embraced him. He found himself lingering in conversation with a few of his father’s soldiers. The night had drawn on for quite some time when he realized he had yet to see Derek.

Derek had disappeared after kissing Stiles. The kiss itself was still lingering on Stiles’ lips, a soft tingle reminding him of the stolen moment.

Stiles stole himself away to wandering through the Baile. He smiled as he watched parents carrying their sleeping children to bed. His heart swelled at seeing both Ytirians and Bethahnians speaking and even laughing with one another. What Kira set out to do was actually having a greater effect. It was actually working.

Stiles didn’t realize he had wandered far from the others, his steps being light and aimless as he found himself near one of the collections of rocks. He cautiously scanned them, hearing the soft sound of a roar coming from somewhere beneath the distance. He turned his head back to look at the Baile, firelight still glowing as chatter started to die down.

Stiles moved forward, pushing himself to climb around the rocks. He tried to focus his eyes on the distant space beneath the cliff. His mouth fell open in awe as he stared down at the water that smashed against the rocks of the bluff beneath.

Waves slammed against the rocks beneath, the roar of water clashing with the solid material. The water was choppy, foaming as it washed out from near the rocks, rejoining the vast openness.

Stiles had never seen anything like it. There was a public fountain, a small pool of water that constantly poured out from the gorgeous marble and gold statue at the center. That was the vast container of water that Bethahn had been given to see.

But this was so much more. A horizon filled with water that stretched as far as Stiles could see.

“We don’t travel far on it,” Derek’s voice broke through Stiles’ mesmerization.

Stiles was silent as he tore his eyes away from the sight before him, his eyes still longing to look back as he looked at Derek. “What … what do you call it?” He weakly asked.

“ _Sæ_ ,” Derek answered as he looked out at the water.

Stiles followed his gaze, almost relieved that he got to look back out at the moving picture before him. “Sea,” he uttered, lowering himself onto the rock he had clambered over, his eyes glued to the blue horizon.

“My mother loved the water,” Derek stated as he moved to sit beside Stiles. “She spent hours sitting here, looking at the water.” He shook his head, recalling the moment Talia had informed him that he was to marry Kate, all in the hopes of ending a senseless war. Talia had waited for him to meet her here, using the serene surroundings to inform her only son that their hope for a future relied on him—that they’d likely never see one another again. “She loved the water,” he repeated, thinking about how much the bluff had changed in the years he was gone.

Stiles pulled his knees up to his chest, his thoughts drifting to his own mother. “My mother would have enjoyed it here,” he answered. “She never liked the heat. She hated dirt in general, but I think she’d enjoy the gentleness of nature here—she’d risk it for a sight like this.” He softly smiled as he thought of his mother seeing the sea. “It makes me think of other Bethahnians, and how they may never see this. How some have gone their whole lives without knowing this is here.”

“If the council votes in our favor, more Bethanians may be able to see it,” Derek replied.

Stiles turned his head to look at Derek. “Is that what you want?”

Derek looked at Stiles, his eyebrows furrowing in question. “After everything, you think I’m not sincere?”

“I … I think I’m not sure,” Stiles answered, looking away from Derek. “I’m sorry.”

Derek turned his body towards Stiles, catching the guilt crossing his features. “Why? Have you done something I have to forgive?”

Stiles sighed. “The Triskelion,” he explained. “I saw it when I was little. I had snuck into my father’s study and saw the symbol on one of the documents. It was … it was before the Great Burning.” He forced himself to look at Derek. “Your family … I …”

“You were there when Kate had them executed,” Derek finished, his body becoming stiff at the thought of such memories.

“No,” Stiles replied. “My father wouldn’t let them make me watch like the rest.”

Derek barely nodded his head as he turned to look away from Stiles.

“I know it doesn’t change anything,” Stiles started, broaching the subject with caution. “But I’m sorry.”

Derek kept his head turned away. “You didn’t burn them,” he answered, his voice stoic and void of emotion.

“No, but my city killed them,” Stiles answered. “Dreams I’ve held for so long—childish, naive dreams … those asked for your family to come to Bethahn, delivering you and your loved ones into the hands of monsters.”

“Kate … ” Derek bit his lip, swallowing down the lump in his throat. “She didn’t have to kill them. She didn’t have to make a spectacle of it. She told me that if I did a good enough job begging, she’d think about letting them go. That she’d at least let my sisters go.”

Stiles saw the way Derek’s hands trembled, painful memories causing him physical ailment. He reached a hand out, gently taking hold of Derek’s hand to let him know that he didn’t have to continue. That he wasn’t alone—that Kate couldn’t hurt him here.

“She lied,” Derek weakly stated. “It didn’t matter—any of it. Because she _lied_. She just wanted me to beg under her heel, like an animal.”

Stiles rubbed his thumb into Derek’s knuckles, trying to release the tension from his body. “I know it doesn’t change anything, but I am sorry. And when this is all over … she’s never going to hurt you, or anyone, ever again.” He watched as Derek forced himself to not look at him. He reached his free hand out, cupping Derek’s cheek as he pulled him closer, forcing him to look at him.

Derek let Stiles turn his face—he let Stiles see the pain and fear he had locked away from Kate for more than a decade. He looked up at Stiles, and for the first time felt unashamed of the tears burning his eyes.

“I’ll _never_ let her hurt you again,” Stiles vowed, his thumb moving to brush high over Derek’s cheekbone, wiping a few remnants of his tears away. He happily leaned forward to meet Derek’s lips in a kiss.

~*~

Stiles stirred, his feet kicking at the blanket as his body overheated from the warmth. He groaned as light struck his eyes, prompting him to wake up. He sighed, giving up his struggle with pretending to still sleep when the day clearly wanted him to wake. He sighed, opening his tired eyes, only to see a ceiling he never saw before.

The ceiling wasn’t a tent, but an actual ceiling made of some type of straw like crop Stiles had never seen before. The beams were made of a series of poles, ones that resembled wood in nature.

Stiles turned his head to look at his surroundings, catching sight of very little possessions. He looked at the blanket that was covering him, noting that the bed he was sleeping in was much more comfortable than the ones he slept on the other night. In fact, it was probably the most comfortable thing Stiles had slept on in the past month.

Stiles slipped from the bed, stretching his arms over his head as he observed the humble furniture filling the room. He smiled to himself as he gathered the blanket, aimlessly folding it as he recalled last night. He spent the night in Derek’s company, both of them clinging to one another as they lost themselves in their urgent exchange of kisses. He remembered resting against Derek, his head nodding slightly as he started to fall asleep.

Stiles paused his movements when a small picture caught his eye. He placed the blanket down on the bed as he inched closer to the picture in order to examine it.

It was a family portrait. An older couple, a woman and man, both sat in the middle as three children surrounded them—two daughters and a son. The two girls looked a great deal alike one another, looking similar to the older man—likely their father. But the boy looked like the woman.

The boy was a young teenager, sharing strong features with the woman—sharp cheekbones, strong jaws, and an almost identical nose.

Stiles drew in a steady breath, knowing that the teenage boy in the photo was Derek, and that it was likely the only photograph he had of his family. He pushed himself towards the door, feeling guilty for lingering in Derek’s room, unsupervised. He felt as if he had seen something private without Derek’s consent. He wanted to learn more about Derek, but he wasn’t about to cross the line and go rummaging through his personal belongings.

Stiles observed his surroundings, noticing that he was in the Baile still. He lightly skipped down the steps of the small hut as he headed towards the campfires. He waved when he saw Erica, Boyd, and Isaac all gathered around one of the fires.

Erica giggled when her staring prompted Stiles to fix his hair and run his hands over his clothes—all a weak attempt to correct his appearance and pretend that he didn’t sleep in his clothes.

“Finally up, huh?” Boyd greeted Stiles, a way of saying he knew something happened, without intruding.

“Yup,” Stiles answered, not giving an answer to Erica’s obvious silent questions.

“Derek be a gentleman?” Isaac asked.

“I have no idea what you are talking about,” Stiles retorted as he took a seat next to Boyd.

“You were so cute, looking like a wee babe in Derek’s arms as he carried you back from the bluff,” Erica fondly stated.

“He carried me back?” Stiles asked, not recalling how he got back.

“He didn’t want to wake you,” Boyd simply explained.

“He gave you his bed,” Isaac added. “I don’t think he slept last night.”

Erica nudged Isaac, quietly uttering in Ytirian, “ _We weren’t supposed to tell him that—he said he’d worry._ ”

“It’s okay, Erica,” Stiles stated, understanding most of the sentence. “I’ll just make sure he gets sleep tonight.”

Erica snorted, unable to contain herself. “I’m sure you will.”

Boyd rolled his eyes, even as a tiny but fond smile pulled at the corner of his lips.

“Where is Derek?” Stiles asked, ignoring Erica’s suggestion.

Isaac looked at Erica and Boyd, opting to remain silent.

Erica poked at the ground with one of the sticks meant for kindling. “Council meeting,” she softly explained. “Some of the Elders were talking about ransoming Allison.”

“They had a meeting with all the Elders to decide on how to proceed,” Boyd added.

“They’ll have decided by now,” Isaac stated in a melancholy tone. “They’re just deciding how to go about the plan.”

“Is my father in there with them?” Stiles asked.

“He was one of the first people they wanted to make sure was,” Erica answered. “He’s sticking by Allison’s side to make sure she’s safe.”

Hours passed before anyone heard what had happened. The sun had already begun to fall, night stretching across the sky. Time seemed to still when word came from the Elders.

War.

One final attack.

One final attempt.

Stiles remained silent as he kept his eyes fixed on the fire, watching the flames dance over the wood as it crumbled into embers. He focused on the heat of the fire as different conversations came and left his range of hearing. He pulled his knees up to his chest as he turned to search out his father. He caught sight of him leaning over a war table as he conversed with Allison and Lydia, Kira pointing out certain things on the countless maps that covered the tabletop.

Stiles felt as if something was stuck in his throat as he abruptly stood, leaving the fire behind. He knew where his feet were taking him. He didn’t bother announcing himself when he walked into Derek’s hut.

Derek had disappeared after the decision was revealed. He had spoken to Boyd and Isaac before retreating to his hut.

“Stiles,” Derek stated in surprise as he rose from his seat.

“Can we win?” Stiles asked as he started to pace slightly. “And I don’t want the encouraging leader opinion. I want the military answer. I want the truth.”

Derek’s eyes lingered on Stiles as he answered, “It could go in either favor.”

“Shit,” Stiles cursed as he ran a hand through his hair. “We’re going to lead them into a massacre thinking they are going to make a difference.”

“Stiles,” Derek called his name, trying to put him at ease as he reached out to stop him from pacing. “It’s going to make a difference. They don’t have half their army—they don’t have their general.”

“People are going to get hurt … people are going to die,” Stiles argued.

“And if we do nothing—risk _nothing_ , we will never be free from the Argents,” Derek answered, his hands lingering on Stiles’ arms. “It’s okay to be afraid, Stiles,” he added, noting the hint of fear flickering across his features.

“I’m just,” Stiles paused, giving in as he moved to press into Derek’s embrace. He rested his forehead against Derek’s shoulder, taking in a soft breath. “I am scared. I’m tired. And I feel like an asshole for complaining to you.”

Derek released a soft chuckle, wrapping his arms around Stiles tighter. “Don’t feel bad for complaining.”

“Derek, you’ve been through so much,” Stiles stated, pulling himself back from Derek. “You’ve lost everything.”

“No,” Derek countered, reaching a hand up to caress Stiles’ cheek. “Not everything.”

“I don’t want to lose this,” Stiles uttered, staring at Derek as his heart hammered away louder and louder inside his chest. “Oh, God,” he released in an unsteady breath. “I don’t want this—whatever this is—to end. But if you want to keep our heads clear until after, I would agree with that,” he nervously rambled.

Derek took a steady breath, his hands trailing over Stiles’ arms. “ _Lufiend_ ,” he uttered. He leaned forward, pressing a kiss to Stiles’ forehead. “Beloved,” he mentioned, placing a kiss to each his eyelids. “Lover,” he whispered as he pressed his forehead against Stiles’, taking in a heavy breath as he waited for Stiles to react. He felt vulnerable and open, something he never thought he’d allow himself feel again.

But it was safe with Stiles. It was right.

Stiles pushed forward, capturing Derek’s lips in a kiss, ignoring the tears that burned his eyes. He held Derek close, not wanting to give him or the moment up. His hands tightened around Derek’s hips, holding onto him as they gave in to their mutual need to feel each other.

~*~

It was slow and loving, Derek handling Stiles with ease and care—treating Stiles like he was fragile glass that he could break. It was as if Stiles was too precious to Derek for him to even attempt straining in any manner.

Derek pressed his forehead against the curve of Stiles’ spine, just between his shoulder blades. He kept his pace steady as he thrust into him, locking his arms against the bed as best he could as he tried to concentrate on not coming too soon.

But the noises Stiles made were starting to tear Derek apart. The way his breath came in short pants, small curses being uttered as he wrapped his hand around himself to stroke in time with Derek’s thrusts. He tried to focus on Derek, the way their hips fit perfectly together in a new and exciting way.

“Derek,” Stiles moaned, allowing his head to hang as Derek’s pace quickened. He closed his eyes as he focused on every feeling Derek was managing to give his body.

Derek’s every sense was consumed by Stiles, a hungry spark being lit within him.

“ _Lufiend_ ,” Stiles uttered, his voice hoarse and his accent weak.

The word had a sparking effect on Derek, driving him to lay claim to Stiles.

Derek slipped his arm around Stiles’ waist, pushing Stiles’ hand away in order to wrap his own around Stiles’ cock. He gently bit at Stiles’ shoulder blade when he released a faint whimper at the change in pace. He moved them, freeing Stiles’ need to brace himself against the bed as he continued to thrust into him.

Stiles begged Derek to keep going, reaching a hand back to encouragingly grip Derek’s hair. He turned his head, connecting with Derek in a hurried kiss as they both drew closer to the climax.

There was a buzzing beneath Stiles’ skin as he came down from his high, feeling slightly embarrassed that he nearly yelled when he finally came. He laughed when Derek kissed him while running a wash cloth along his body in a tepid attempt to clean him. He wanted to halt time, and steal away in this moment forever.

It was in the late hours of the night—with their limbs entangled as their bodies rested beneath the sheets—that they felt sated in their need for one another.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know I promised the true meaning being revealed by someone other than Derek, but it ended up being Derek.
> 
> Anglo-Saxon words used as Ytirian words:
> 
> lāđgenīđla (lath-yen-e-th-la) – foe, enemy
> 
> lŷtling (loot-ling) – little one, (infant/child)
> 
> yfel (oo-fell) – evil, harm, wicked, vile
> 
> lufiend (l-uh-v-e-end) – beloved, lover
> 
> sæ (s-ah) - sea

**Author's Note:**

> Feel free to join me on tumblr:
> 
> [drunklightning](http://drunklightning.tumblr.com) is my blog where I reblog anything I find of interest.
> 
> [dexterous-sinistrous](http://dexterous-sinistrous.tumblr.com) is suited towards my ramblings about my writing, and NSFW. (It's where I serenade myself about Sterek). It's my trashcan of emotions. Feel free to stop by and say hi, criticize me, make incoherent noises with me, whatevs.
> 
> [Send](http://dexterous-sinistrous.tumblr.com/ask) me any prompts you think you'd like to have me write!


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